


Epiphany

by sunsetmog



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Sort of a WIP although it does have an ending of a kind, kilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-06
Updated: 2004-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Billy and Dom are at an unspecified wedding, and then decide to have sex. Basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

> Technically this is a WIP, since kraken-wakes and I did plan out what happened afterwards, but it does in fact end with orgasms, therefore I'm calling it done. 
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/9998.html) in July 2004.

-*-

It sure as hell hadn't happened before. Billy would have noticed.

He would have fucking noticed if he'd previously felt the need to rip Dom's clothes off and lick him all over and lie him down in a bed full of chocolate buttons and let them melt. 

He would have fucking noticed, right?

Surely it would have come to his attention at some point, wouldn't it? They couldn't have been friends for all this time without Billy realising at some point along the way that actually, what he really wanted to do to Dom involved Dom being entirely naked and Billy biting his way down his body. 

Billy checked again. Just to be sure. Nope. No previous recognition of any desire (furtive or not) to rip off Dom's shirt and rub him all over with oil. And just because Billy was entirely dissatisfied with that answer, he tried again (and not just because he wanted to find more well-hidden mental imagery of him eating melted chocolate hobnobs off Dom's stomach). He searched all his available memory banks just in case, but he couldn't find any previous reference to him wanting to bend Dom over a table, rip his jeans off and nibble on his arse. Not one. Not even in jest.

Right. So it appeared that Billy was having a new experience this evening. One that appeared to involve thinking about Dominic naked and tied to a bed. Billy raised an eyebrow. _That_ was a new one.

He shrugged. Billy could think of worse ways to spend an evening. (And better ways as well, but that would generally involve actually imparting his new found knowledge about Dominic and the Nakedness to the man himself, which Billy had no profound intention of doing in the near future, thank-you-very-much). 

It wasn't often that Billy could say in all seriousness that he enjoyed weddings Normally, he fucking _hated_ spending time at these (frankly boring) formal occasions. Any mention of weddings and his face would screw up like he'd just accidentally swallowed a bad oyster, and those people who knew him would laugh and punch him on the shoulder, whilst those that didn't would wonder if they'd put their foot in it somewhere along the line and would make a hasty exit. It wasn't that the evening itself was boring, per se, it was just the inordinately long period of time they were supposed to sit down and listen to some relative of some electrician that he hardly knew drone on about just how proud they were of their daughter, whilst the (bored out of their minds) guests made do with a single bottle of wine for the entire round (Arthurian) table. 

But not tonight. Not this evening. Not this wedding. Billy was hardly bored at all. 

Dom turned away from the makeshift stage for a moment, leaning back and reaching for the remains of his glass of wine. Billy couldn't help but stare; he'd pretended that he'd had to drag himself away from the scintillating speeches to let his eyes meet Dom's (dark, black, coloured in) just for a second. He'd pretended that he hadn't been staring at his best friend for the better part of the evening. 

Dom winked. Just briefly, just quickly, just slow enough for Billy to catch. 

Just fast enough for no one else to. 

It wasn't like he was admitting to _liking_ weddings, Billy told himself (sharply, for the inner workings of Billy's mind liked to keep the outer workings firmly in check) as Dom shifted to get a better view of the bride and groom. It wasn't as if he'd suddenly changed his mind about the whole caboodle, he was merely admitting to the (very accurate) possibility that the exceedingly long speeches (and Billy fervently, fervently hoped they went on for sodding hours) were giving him the perfect opportunity to stare, unfettered, at Dom. He didn't normally have the opportunity, because typically Dom wasn't sat next to him (between Billy and the temporary stage), the beginnings of stubble shadowing across his face like a cloud in front of the moon, blackened eyes shining as he vacillated between grinning at the stage and blowing smoke in Billy's general direction with a wink and a smile. 

So in all honesty, it wasn't even true that Billy was enjoying the speeches. He was just enjoying watching Dom, enjoying the way Dom kept staring at him with those fuck-me-please-right-here-in-the-ballroom-in-front-of-everyone eyes, enjoying the fact that Dom didn't—and wasn't likely to—get the fact that him just winking in Billy's general direction had caused a particularly unexpected reaction underneath Billy's (red) kilt. More than anything, Billy loved having the time and the opportunity to concentrate on Dom properly. And despite not wanting to admit this to him, ever, Billy loved the quiet. Not in the room, because small ripples of applause were winging their way around the tables, in and out of flower arrangements as people giggled, and there was the clink of wine glasses as all the other terminally bored wedding-haters in the room (Billy knew they were a small minority, but others did exist) filled up their glasses. He loved the fact that Dom wasn't talking. And it wasn't because the silence meant that Billy was enjoying not hearing Dom talk—because if anything, the upshot of hearing that voice tonight was a significant effect on Billy's nether regions, and as Billy usually considered his nether regions a vital part of his anatomy, any sort of unexpected reaction was well worth the exploration. Dom not talking—Dom _listening_ —meant that Billy could just revel in staring, unfettered, at his best friend. And try and make various parts of his anatomy behave. _Down boy_.

Permissible staring was a great thing. Because if anyone asked, Billy was looking past Dom and out towards the raised stage at the other end of the ballroom, where the rotund sound engineer was regaling the wedding-lovers with tales of his daughter's childhood. Of course, Billy would be entirely in the shit if anyone were to ask him about the time the bride had dropped her clarinet down the well, because Billy hadn't heard a word since he'd realised he'd wanted to smother Dom in ice cream and lick it off his nipples.

Dom was a secret-wedding-lover, and the fact made Billy want to shove something hard up his nose. Dom loved weddings. Dom practically _bounced_ at weddings, the sad twat, and normally that would be enough to make Billy roll his eyes and head out of the French windows for a cigarette at the very first available opportunity. And usually, he didn't even fucking smoke. Weddings drove him to excesses, and typically nipping out for a quick cigarette was just an excuse to avoid the frantic nature of the occasion; those who were attached wanted to swap rings, and those who weren't either wanted to frantically copulate or chuck themselves off the nearest high building. Billy hadn't taken the realisation that Dom was a secret-poofy (he wishes)—wedding-lover very well, and was kicking him in the shins every time Dom looked like he was about to ponce about and wish the world well and expound on the love in the room. Dom, however, just took that as further encouragement, and grinned, raised an eyebrow and winked again, slowly, his eye dark and hooded. 

Ch-rist. Billy was fucked. He was honestly fucked. Entirely bowled over. 

When the fucking, buggering hell had that happened? _Why_ the fucking, buggering, shitting hell had it decided to creep up on him, here, today, and now?

Billy was hard-pressed to find an answer he currently considered satisfactory. He'd seen Dom in a suit before. Not _this_ one, admittedly, for this one was charcoal and smoky and was hand stitched on the hem. 

Of course, that wasn't to say that Billy had been _looking_ at Dom's hemline, he'd been reaching for his napkin which he'd dropped on the floor, and then he'd banged his head on the table (causing Dom to snort and the rest of the table to shoot them hard looks), and his eyes had accidentally been forced to stare at the hemline of Dom's jacket (not his crotch, _definitely_ not his crotch) for thirty seconds or more. 

Fuck it. Billy took one look at the remains of his glass of red wine and downed it. If he was going to fantasize about Dominic all night long it might as well include getting off his tits on alcohol at the same time. That way, come the end of the night, he could simply pass out in his kilt rather than bemoan the lack of sleeping partner and then have to spend the rest of the night hard and horny, wanking off in his bedroom whilst thinking about his (very, very sexy and when had he got so damned hot?) best mate. Billy's conscience told him slyly that Billy didn't exactly want him for a 'sleeping partner', but Billy took one look at his conscience and decided that he was a stupid bugger who didn't know his arse from his elbow. When had his conscience ever been right before? And because Billy didn't want to think about the intricacies of the situation (he'd much rather think about the curve of Dom's arse in that particularly nice smoky charcoal suit) he helped himself to the last third of the bottle of wine, purposefully ignoring the rest of their table who seemed to consider excessive drinking the scourge of the devil. Billy shrugged. He didn't particularly care; he just wanted to get completely off his face on complementary (and really very nice) Chilean Merlot.

And it wasn't as if Billy hadn't seen Dom with stubble before. Bloody hell, it was pretty much a daily occurrence. Dom was a lazy fucker. But tonight... tonight, Billy was faced with the strange desire to grab Dom's jacket with both hands, throw him across the table and lick his face. And then take him by the hand and drag him out of the dining room and pin him up against the first wall he came across. And because this was fantasy and not reality, Billy would in fact lead Dom out of the room, and shag him up against the wall in the first luxuriously decorated, sumptuous bedroom he came to, which, as luck would have it in his fantasy, was right next door. Then, of course, when up-against-the-wall shagging was all over and done with, then there would be on-the-bed shagging and then in-the-bathroom-shagging, and—fuck it—some stupid sod was trying to talk to him. Billy attempted to drag his sorry arse back to the land of the living and away from his nice little fantasy world where Dom was currently nibbling his way down Billy's chest. 

It was Dom. Dom, the idiot, who was poking Billy in the arm and rebuking him for not bothering to fill _his_ glass up. Dom, bridging the (not so large) gap between them to whisper in his ear and then poking him in the ribs. Dom, his stubble ticklish against Billy's earlobe, his breath warm in Billy's hair, muttered "Oi, fuckwit, stealing all the fucking alcohol... there's still the bride's mother to get through yet... idiot."

Billy gulped, and only partly because the idea of another speech was enough to have him reach for the steak knife to slit his own throat, but mostly because having Dom so close was doing very funny things to his insides and was not—in any way, shape or form—reducing his erection at all. As long as he could stay here, legs under the table, tablecloth strategically arranged so as to cover all vital (prominent) bits of his anatomy, Billy told himself, he would be just fine. Just fine indeed, thank-you-very-much. Kilts were all very well, but the real star of the covering-up-the-erection brigade was, indeed, the sporran. Billy felt like it deserved its own little round of applause, and when the bride's father (finally) sank down behind the top table, Billy joined in the clapping with a vociferous cheer.

And then—because Billy hadn't heard a word of the speech for the last five minutes—he jumped as the band started up. "No more speeches?" He mumbled, in comprehensible relief.

Dom grinned, and Billy wondered if he should tell him he had chocolate on his lip from the complementary Ferrero Rocher. His erection throbbed, and Billy decided, no, the chocolate was just fine, exactly where it is. And no, he wouldn't imagine leaning across the table and licking it off—biting it off. Nibbling on that lip... Shit. Fuck. Sodding, buggering hell. Shut. Up. 

"Sorry, Bills, I couldn't resist. I knew you weren't fucking listening."

Billy contemplated hitting Dom over the head with the empty wine bottle. He fucking hated weddings. "I need more wine," he grumbled, wrinkling his nose up and staring around the room in the vain hope that more complementary fermented grapes were headed in his direction. 

"Sorry mate," Dom grinned, "We're right out of the free stuff. It's time to reach for your wallet and head for the bar like every other fucker here."

"Aw, shit." Billy sighed, realising that he hadn't been fast enough and that the queue for further alcohol was now three deep. "I need another drink sometime before midnight, thanks very much."

"What happens at midnight, Bills?" Dominic shifted his chair closer to Billy's by an inch or so, "You gonna turn into a pumpkin or something?"

"A lack of alcohol is no laughing matter," Billy reprimanded Dom, as he tried not to notice the effect that Dom's increasing proximity had had on his overactive dick. He attempted to manoeuvre himself further away from Dom without causing unnecessary distress. It wasn't to be; the woman with the donkey laugh to Billy's right jabbed him on the elbow with her handbag, and he had to move back again, purposefully ignoring Dom's raised eyebrow. Billy supposed that he could forego the alcohol if there was a promise of being allowed into Dom's charcoal trousers in the very near future, but considering that that possibility was somewhere in the realms of fantasy, Billy decided he had to brave the bar. "What do y' want to drink, Monaghan?" he asked, finally, with a sigh. 

"Get us another bottle, Boyd. I'm nipping out for a quick cigarette."

Billy raised an eyebrow. "You _can_ smoke in here you know, Dom." He indicated the overflowing ashtrays on many of the tables, finally staring pointedly at the ashtray in front of Dom. 

Dom pretended not to notice. "Well, then, I need some fresh air." Dom explained with a shrug, whilst not quite meeting Billy's eyes. "You can come find me with the wine." Dom shrugged again, and poked Billy in the elbow. "Go on, before the queue's out the door. I'll go next time."

"Fair enough," Billy narrowed his eyes. "I'll see you out there then."

But Dom was already half way across the room, threading in between a multitude of women in obligatory floral wear. That boy, Billy decided, leaning back slightly so as to get a better view of Dom's arse as he weaved his way through the tables, was decidedly odd. 

But Billy kind of liked odd, he told himself, as he attempted to use both weight and muscle to fight his way to the front of the bar queue. Of course, the combination of Billy's weight and muscle still left him on the edge of the now four-deep queuing system, so a new battle plan required formulating. Much as Billy would like to, he was far too tall to be sneaking under people's arms and through their legs in a desperate attempt to reach the bar quicker, so he made do with taking full advantage of sneaking into the gaps quicker than the (much) taller men. This was the Lord of the Rings shoot, after all; this was probably the only place on earth where 6'7" was a perfectly normal height. Billy ducked under the arm of a tall man wearing a boater, and nudged his way through the queue. Billy kind of liked odd, he realised again, managing to get one hand on the bar, dollars in his hand. Or rather, Billy liked Dom, which roughly equated to the same thing. And Billy was not contemplating ripping all of Dom's clothes off, cracking open the bottle of wine and then licking it up off his naked body, oh no, not Billy. Billy was innocent. Billy would never consider such an improper fantasy. 

Billy thought better of himself and ordered two bottles of red wine. 

Dom still wasn't back at the table when Billy finally got away from the bar; nor was he visible on the dance floor with the other hobbits and one (rather wasted) elf. He must, therefore, Billy reasoned with all the intellectual capacity of someone who has drunk the best part of a bottle of wine and spent the past two hours scrutinising his best friend to within a blink of insanity, be still outside on the terrace. He was certainly taking his time with that cigarette; Billy had been queuing for far longer than the time it took to smoke a single one. No doubt Dom would claim to be enjoying the evening air, or he would come up with some other wanky excuse to justify his avoidance tactics for not going to the bar. Billy decided that there was no way he was staying in here clutching two open bottles of wine and two glasses, when he could be out there, drunkenly making cow-eyes at the object of his affection and copping a sly feel whilst pretending to be too wellied to stand up by himself. Billy was proud of himself. A foolproof plan! 

With one, small (teeny, tiny, weeny) loophole, Billy realised as he found Dom outside in the lengthening shadows of the early evening dusk.

"Uh, Billy?" Dom leant against the white doorframe; his charcoal jacket (draped over one shoulder) lazily lapped across the woodwork. Dom shifted to light another cigarette. 

"Yep?" Billy wasn't really paying attention, staring (as he was) at Dom's purple shirt and (loosened) charcoal tie. He was not, under any circumstances, imagining undoing those buttons with his teeth and licking his way down to Dom's belly button and beyond. He just wasn't. Billy didn't do that sort of thing.

"Is there something wrong?" Dom asked, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, "Only you haven't seemed yourself this evening."

"I got you some wine." Billy took a swig from each of the bottles in order to assert his ownership over them both before half heartedly handing one over to Dom. It appeared that Billy's fantastic, foolproof preparations had failed. Dom had seen through his cunning plan. Billy was most upset. "What makes you think that, Dom?"

Dom took a long drag, and blinked, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette. "I dunno. Perhaps its because you've hardly said a word to me in hours, and you can't stop staring at me." He raised an eyebrow in Billy's general direction. 

Billy realised that not only had his foolproof plan failed, Dom now thought he was a complete idiot to boot. "You're wearing a very nice suit tonight," Billy told him, for want of something better to say. He was very proud of himself for not mentioning the addendum—that he'd look so much better out of it. 

"You're staring at me because you like my suit?" Dom grinned, shaking his head at Billy. "That's a new one. I thought you hated my dress sense."

"Only because you generally need to be wearing sunglasses to come within a thirty foot radius of you."

Dom had the cheek to look affronted. Pouring a good third of the bottle into his glass, he poked an accusing finger in Billy's direction, "Orlando is much, much worse than me."

"Did I say otherwise?" Billy had dispensed with the notion of using a glass and was just chugging from the bottle. It was good wine, if Billy had stopped to taste it. Drinking tonight, however, was a means to an end. Billy had absolutely no intention of lying awake later that evening with a raging hard on brought on from too close a proximity to Dominic and his really very sexy, highly attractive suit. Because then, there would have to be some thinking involved. Billy would have to question his attraction to his best friend—something he had no intention of doing, thank you very much, because Billy was perfectly content in the knowledge that there was no way these feelings would last until the cold light of day. They were only attached to weddings. Slightly drunken weddings. Billy was definitely not contemplating the realisation that the attraction this evening had started long before the alcohol had started to flow so generously. So now, Billy had to stop thinking, because his mind was wandering towards the 'Dominic Naked' side of things again, and Billy just couldn't deal with that when he was desperately trying not to betray himself to a perturbed Dominic. "I never mentioned the possibility that Orlando was a better dresser than you. I wouldn't dare."

Dom raised an eyebrow, and Billy found himself staring in some consternation at those blackened eyes. Eyeliner, he realised, had the effect of making Dom's eyes glitter about ten shades darker than normal. 

"You're doing it again." Dom said eventually. "Staring at me."

"I thought you liked the attention." Thank heavens he was an actor, Billy told himself, else this situation might be getting into difficulties. He took another slug from the bottle, and told himself that there was no way he was thinking about pushing Dominic back against the wall and getting him naked, item by item of clothing, and then getting on his knees and having Dom come in his mouth. Dammit, Dominic was talking again. Billy was beginning to be aware of a certain disparity between his own mouth and his brain, and this could only precipitate greater wrongs. He took another drink from the bottle to calm his nerves. 

"I do like attention. I just don't like you staring at me, and not saying anything."

"The wine's good." Billy told him, dragging his eyes away from Dom's and paying more attention than was strictly necessary to Dom's cigarette, which Dom was currently twirling slowly in a cupped hand. Black nail varnish, Billy noted, before coming to the realisation that he was a very, very sad git, and he'd better get over this sad obsession with his best mate before someone popped him in a nice (comfortable) white coat and shipped him off to the nearest loony bin. 

"Yes."

Fuck it. "It's not like you don't stare at me too." Billy pouted, because he was a third of the way down his bottle of wine now, and he needed a wee, and he was at that nice comfortable state where if he moved his head, his vision took a moment to catch up with his body. Billy liked that feeling, the feeling that his body was (for once) well ahead of his brain, because that meant he was less likely to think about things. Or was his brain ahead of his body? Billy couldn't tell. Thinking about things only seemed to serve to piss him off, and make life more complicated. If he hadn't spent the last two hours thinking about Dominic, wouldn't his life be less complicated now?

"You're wearing a kilt," Dom pointed out, taking a step forward and tugging gently on the red tartan, "It's a bit out of the ordinary."

"It is not." Billy shrugged Dom's hand away. Any closer and he'd be needing that sporran for cover-up duties again. Either that or he wouldn't be responsible for his actions. Neither action was preferable. "Anyway, I look good in a kilt." 

"I know." And Dom was just stood there, looking at him, staring at Billy's kilt through those dark slits he liked to call eyes, and Billy was, well, pissed off, because Dom was making him feel uncomfortable. And whether he liked it or not, Billy was beginning to feel the adverse effects under his kilt. And fucking hell, he was supposed to be the only one allowed to stare this evening. "And this kilt is, well," Dom shrugged his shoulders, "really a very nice kilt indeed."

"Really?" Billy stared down at his kilt, and waited the obligatory second for his vision to re-align. "I'm glad you like it." He shook his head, "Anyway, that doesn't give you the right to stare at me, you know. Just because I'm wearing a kilt and you happen to think I look fucking hot in it, it doesn't give you the right..."

"I didn't say you looked 'fucking hot' in the kilt, Bills." Dom interjected and Billy realised that whilst drinking his way through the evening with the only aim of intending to pass out at the end of it was in some ways, an extremely good plan, in other ways the plan was not watertight.

"Didn't you? I must have imagined that." Billy blinked, took another (long) gulp from the bottle and decided that it was about the right time to stare out across the grounds of the hotel, pretending that he was taking in the beauty of the early evening dusk and most definitely not leaning on the cold iron railings in the vain hope that they'd have a restorative effect on his over active penis.

"Imagined?" Dom asked, cocking an eyebrow. 

It was about this time that Billy realised his foolproof plan was full of fucking huge holes (big enough to park a sodding tank in). And not only was Billy digging his hole with his own personal spade, he'd gone and hired a huge digger (like the playmobil one he'd had as a kid, but real) and he was excavating his own sodding trench. Billy decided that the very best plan of all would be just to pretend that the previous couple of hours hadn't happened. No attraction, no staring. Just start the evening all over again.

Now all somebody had to do was to inform his dick of the recent decision. 

"Can I cadge a cigarette?" Billy asked, taking another long gulp of wine. 

Dom narrowed his eyes. "You want to bum a cigarette? You spent twenty minutes telling Lij it was going to kill him yesterday."

"I'm an enigma, what can I say?" Billy was under the distinct impression that things were going off on a bit of a tangent here, and he was happier about that than he could put into words. 

"What's up with you tonight, Billy?" Dom was fumbling in his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled packet of Marlboro lights and an orange packet of matches. "And don't just tell me it's cos you hate weddings, because I won't bloody believe you. Weddings don't tend to make you this odd."

Luckily, Billy wasn't drunk enough to expound on his various theories as to how best he and Dom would fuck, and how he'd spent half an hour wondering if that bit of skin just below Dom's ear was as sensitive as it looked. So, instead, he downed approximately a glass of wine straight from the bottle and then held out his hand for the cigarette. "If I told you, Dom, you definitely wouldn't believe me."

"Try me."

_Fuck_. Billy fumbled with the cigarette—as anyone would who was clutching a bottle of wine and a glass (one two thirds empty, and the other completely empty, and as of yet, unused) and attempting to hide a hard on by waving a bottle in front of his sporran—and looked beseechingly at Dom. "Light this for me, would you, Dommie,"

"What did your last servant die of, Boyd?" Dom grinned, "Anything else you need doing whilst I'm here? Shoes shined perhaps? Boots licked?"

Billy was getting drunker by the minute, but even he realised that _suck me off, Dominic, bend me over the table and fuck me until I can't see straight_ was probably not the best and most appropriate thing to say at this juncture. "Just light my cigarette, Monaghan. A man could die or something whilst you were faffing about." 

Dominic raised an eyebrow. "What the fuck is up with you tonight, Billy?" He flicked open the lighter and held it out towards Billy, who fumbled with his bottle and his glass, manoeuvring his wine under one arm so he could put his cigarette in his mouth and lean forward. 

"I fucking hate weddings," Billy moaned, a second later, sucking inexpertly on the cigarette. "Can't stand the bloody things." 

"I'd noticed," Dom said, grinning. "It's not as if that's something you keep under your hat. Go on."

"You're an idiot," Billy told him, taking another slug of the wine. "You're one of those mad sods who thinks there's love in the room. Can you see any fucking love in the room? Really?" He waved his cigarette around as if to exaggerate his point, coming hazardously close to Dom's nose.

Dom shrugged, his eyes dark. For a second, he stared at Billy, until Billy got confused and felt hot and had to look away. If only his fucking hard on would listen to his brain and diminish, Billy thought, taking another gulp of the wine. And if it wanted, Billy told himself harshly, trying not to think about sliding his tongue up the inside of Dom's thigh and having him come in his mouth, his fucking erection could fucking go into the west as well. Anything so long as it wasn't bloody pointing north. Although the proximity to Dom and that fucking hot suit was not doing much for Billy's lucidity or his ability to undertake complex brain mechanisms, reducing him as it had to monosyllabic exclamations of fuck, hot, and Dom, Billy was more than content to blame the damn wedding for having the dubious pleasure of eating Billy's brain. 

Billy gripped the neck of his almost empty bottle of wine tighter, his fingers slippery against the glass. He didn't remember the last time he'd drunk a whole bottle so quickly; probably when he was 19 and he and his friends had been pushing each other to achieve new heights of drunken recklessness. Billy chose not to specifically recall the fact he'd spent many of the subsequent hours hugging the toilet bowl in the manner of one who had much love to give. He had, however, mixed the wine with both Shite Lightening and Vadko that evening, so the lasting relationship he'd gleaned with the avocado bath suite was perhaps deserved. 

"I don't know about _love_ ," Dom muttered finally, dragging Billy away from those heady memories of his youth, "but you were right about one thing."

Billy finished his bottle, and, not knowing what to do with it, held it out for Dom to dispose of. Dom deposited it on the patio table behind him; for a second it wobbled precariously on the uneven surface. "What?" Billy said finally, his eyes meeting Dom's.

"You do look fucking hot in that kilt, Boyd."

 

Billy blinked. Waited for his vision to realign. Squinted, just to make sure Dom wasn't laughing at him and he hadn't noticed. "I do?" He said, finally, after he'd realised that staring open-mouthed at Dominic was perhaps not the best way to continue this conversation. 

"You do." Dom wasn't giving much away—even Billy in his state of self-imposed drunkenness could establish that. 

Billy wondered what the best way to address this was. Probably quite subtly, he told himself, as he banished the image of Dom licking whipped cream off his stomach somewhere to the recesses of his brain. Something smooth, sophisticated, and clever enough so that if he'd picked up the wrong end of the stick, it wouldn't drop him in it. He opened his mouth. "Well, I quite fancy you in that suit too." 

Not quite what he had in mind, Billy reasoned with himself, as he watched Dom's eyes widen. 

Billy berated himself for being a complete fucking idiot. This wine plan didn't just have fucking great holes in it; there just wasn't any plan to begin with. 

But Dom just smiled and reached out for Billy's hand. 

Looking down, Billy watched as Dom took the smouldering remains of Billy's forgotten cigarette out from between his damp fingers, dropped it and put it out with one step forward. 

Dom's shoes shone. 

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" Dom asked, his fingers curling around Billy's forearm. With a tug on his sleeve, Dom dragged him out of the glare from the light of the ballroom and into the shadowy corner of the terrace.

"Like what?" Billy raised an eyebrow. The movement confused him, because his other eyebrow didn't know what to do, so it attempted to wiggle slightly. The fact that Dom snorted in response was enough to suggest to Billy that he wasn't currently presenting himself in his best light. Billy narrowed his eyes. "What did you want me to say? _You look so sodding good tonight I want you to take me to bed and fuck me?"_

Billy's mouth dropped open. That was it. His brain to mouth mechanism was now officially fucking sacked. With no notice, no refunds from the pension scheme and no sodding redundancy packet. It could just bugger off and sleep on the streets in a battered cardboard box for all Billy cared at this point—it had got him into enough trouble this evening. It didn't deserve Billy's sympathy as well. He met Dom's eyes.

Dominic's eyes shut. He didn't _just_ blink, and Billy didn't _just_ catch the movement out of the corner of his eye, a brief flutter in his peripheral vision, this was actual shutting. Where Billy could concentrate on the smudge of black across Dom's eyelids, and see the flicker of movement beneath. Dom's eyes were shut, and he sighed. Sighed in the manner of one trying to get a grip of himself. Billy grinned. There was a distinct possibility that his brain to mouth mechanism was about to be given a second chance. 

Dom's fingers tightened on Billy's arm, and his eyes flicked open. He pushed Billy back against the wall, leant in close and whispered, his breath hot and ticklish against Billy's ear, "Is that what you want, Billy? Me with my dick up your arse?"

Billy swallowed. And once more, just to make sure he still could. His brain to mouth mechanism had just been re-instated. With a pay rise and an extra fortnight's holiday a year. And a new office with a funky swivel chair. Dom's breath was still hard and hot against Billy's ear, with Dom's fingers tightening on his wrist as he pulled away to meet Billy's eyes. 

"Well?" Dom muttered, and his hand slid down to cup Billy's erection through the kilt. "You fancy that?"

Billy hissed, as long fingers squeezed him, hot and hard beneath the thick wool. "Fucking hell, yes." He arched into Dom's touch, one hand hot and sweaty against the cool brick of the hotel wall, the other reaching for (and clinging on for dear life to) Dom's lapel. 

"Well then," and Dom looked at him, his eyes half shut, "why the bloody hell didn't you just say? Could have taken you out and fucked you up against the wall hours ago."

Billy was perfectly well aware that there are some times in this life when it was all a man can do to stay upright. He was well aware that the majority of these isolated moments were the direct result of far, far too much alcohol and a tendency to be more than a little clumsy even when sober. But in the last few seconds he had come to realise that every now and again, there came a moment when it was the sheer force of words alone that knocked you off your feet. The sheer force of words alone, and the movement of fingers on a (very, very) hard, damp penis through heavy tartan. Dark, glittering eyes promising truths Billy hadn't even want to acknowledge just hours earlier ( _fuck you up against the wall_ ) was enough for Billy's knees to have turned to jelly and for him to be completely unable to do anything other than grind up against Dom's hand. . "Dom..." Billy warned, and his voice was low enough to constitute a growl. Billy felt the sweat bead on his forehead. 

Dom grinned, and his teeth caught the base of Billy's ear, nibbling softly, his breath stifling against Billy's skin. "You should have said something Billy;" Dom whispered, his mouth against Billy's ear, "I could have dragged you into that lift and stuck my hand under that kilt of yours, made you come before we even got up to the top floor."

That was it. Billy let out a strangled yelp, berated himself for sounding as manly as, well, Dom, and moved to kiss him. Missed, (obviously, due to heightened state of drunkenness and Dom's fingers still maintaining a heavy, extremely distracting grip on his penis through two layers of thick wool) caught the edge of Dom's mouth, and felt Dom smile. He felt Dom laugh against his skin, felt the hand leave his kilt (and there was the requisite moan of realisation, and the unconscious pressing upwards of Billy's hips into thin air), and then just as he was about to complain, Dom pushed him back up against the wall, his hands pressed on Billy's chest, his mouth just touching Billy's. His words hummed against Billy's lips, and the buzz was enough for Billy to shift under his mouth, pushing up and against Dom's body. "Is that what you want, Bills? Me to take you upstairs right now and sort you out?" His hand slid down Billy's body again, hovering tantalisingly close to Billy's aching, dripping cock. "Sort _this_ out?" Dom's fingers felt for the bulge in the kilt, and Billy bucked against the touch. 

"Fuck, yes," Billy gasped, grabbing Dom's shirt in one damp fist. 

Dom's eyes met his, and for a second they were nothing but blind, black holes. But then Dom grinned, and Billy was back on more familiar territory. Until Dom kissed him, lips pressed hard against Billy's, the meeting of hot, wet tongues and the second-hand taste of Marlboro and Ferrero Rocher overwhelming his senses. Dom kissed in the same way he attacked life—pushing and tasting and pressing and feeling—with one hand on Billy's neck, the fingers moving slowly but continuously across the taut skin, his thigh pressing against Billy's cock. Billy reacted like a drunken man who had just been given all his Christmases at once in one fantastic promise of a shag, with humping and kissing and laughing and licking (trying to find more Ferrero Rocher) all the time with one hand vaguely attempting to find its way in the general direction of Dom's mythical penis (the oral tradition of tale telling could have been invented for Dom and his hyperbole). His fingers found purple shirt, and it bunched up around his fingertips as he fought the move downwards towards the belt, knocking his finger on the silver belt buckle, until his hot fingers found an equally hot bulge in Dom's trousers. 

Dom's sharp intake of breath and the resultant catch of Billy's lip between Dom's teeth was enough to suggest that Billy wasn't the only one who had gotten excited at the prospect of nakedness, and skin, and hard cocks and spunk and fucking. 

Billy grinned, hazily; he pulled away and licked at Dom's throat with a long, damp tongue. "Have you thought about this before?" he asked, his fingers struggling with Dom's belt buckle, scrabbling over warm silver. "Me with my hand down your pants?"

"You _trying_ to get your hand down my pants," Dom corrected, sweat beading on his forehead, his hand smacking against the wall as he shifted beneath Billy's probing fingers. "It might have crossed my mind," he hissed, as Billy gave up struggling with Dom's belt and just went for the zip instead. 

"Really?" Billy asked, as clumsy, stubby fingers tried to get a good hold on Dom's zip. "You've thought about this?" Somewhere at the back of Billy's mind, Billy knew that that information should have sent him spasming off into fits of confusion and despair—his best friend _wanted_ him—that _should_ have disturbed him. And yet, as it was, just hearing Dom admit it—in a voice taut with pent up emotion and the promise of sexual release very soon indeed—was enough to make Billy's fingers shake and for him to reach up and meet Dom's mouth with hot breaths, a wet tongue, and thoroughly bad (naked, sweaty, slick, hard) intentions. Dom shivered beneath his touch, and Billy kissed him harder, one hand snaking upwards and coming to rest in the short, soft hair in the nape of Dom's neck. Billy had forgotten that five hours ago this— _this_ (hot, sticky bodies pressing together in dark corners)—hadn't even crossed his mind. Now, five hours and a considerable amount of alcohol and a mindfuck of a charcoal suit later, Billy could think of nothing else but Dominic, naked, erect and lying in a bed of chocolate buttons, whilst Billy licked whipped cream off his nipples. Clearly, his subconscious had been enjoying these desires for some time; such was the highly developed nature of the ideas that Billy now found at the forefront of his mind. Faced with the uncomfortable prospect of voicing his (previously latent) desires, most of which appeared to involve Dom and a variety of foodstuffs, Billy wondered what the room service menu was like in the hotel. 

"I've thought about it," Dom admitted, through clenched teeth, as he pulled away from Billy's kiss to steady himself with one hand on the wall, his other hand slipping down to rest on Billy's hip. Dom gripped Billy's kilt with a strangled breath, as Billy fought with the zip. "I've thought about it a lot."

Zips were not a good invention when it came to protecting the penis from harm. Zips were _definitely_ not a good invention for drunken, clumsy fuckers who were generally of the opinion that kissing and licking and sucking (and just getting things in general quite wet) were much more important than concentrating on sensitive parts of the body and metal devices. If he'd been sober, Billy would have admitted to having seen _There's Something About Mary_ , just like any other Tom, Dick, Harry or Dom on the planet. Unfortunately for Dom's (rather hard and possibly of mythical proportions) cock, Dom's admittance of not-so-latent desires meant that Billy's mind was definitely concentrating elsewhere. This in turn meant that rather sensitive areas of Dom's anatomy were at the mercy of one zip and one rather overexcited and drunken Scotsman. If Billy had been Dom, he would have been bracing himself for pain. Billy was not Dom, however, Billy was Billy, and Billy was concentrating on the fact that he had never expected to _want_ to see Dominic naked. During the course of filming there had been opportunities—surfing, parties, hobbit trailers and numerous other times when there had been altogether too much skin on show for Billy's liking—but never a time when Billy had actively desired Dom to get his kit off. Until, of course, the advent of the charcoal suit and the alcohol and the fucking wedding, where the combination appeared to have caused Billy's brain to self-destruct, and where the prospect of bending Dominic over and licking his way up Dom's inner thigh was enough to make Billy's erection throb and his fingers to tighten on the zip and force it down over Dom's (hard, dampness spreading through the cotton of his boxers) cock. Since Billy had chosen to undertake this journey of self-discovery (self-satisfaction, memories to fuel a million future masturbatory occasions—although that was something Billy wasn't too keen to focus on at that particular time), the prospect of seeing Dom naked had taken on a whole other degree of importance. Somewhere about the time that Billy had realised that even if Dom was lying naked on a bed of mushy peas, his cock would still jump to attention and demand some proper release, Billy had realised he was in serious trouble. 

"Thought about what, exactly?" Billy hissed, as his fingers slid inside Dom's (sexy as fuck) trousers, and the pad of his thumb grazed the damp spot on Dom's boxers, feeling the hard bulge of Dom's erection beneath. "Did you think about this? Me and you? You hard, and me wanking you off?"

Dom's eyes met Billy's, and just for a moment, Billy was rendered speechless. Fire danced behind the dark shadow of Dom's irises, his breath hot and hard against Billy's cheek. Billy gripped the head of Dom's penis between thumb and forefinger, and Dom's sharp intake of breath and the widening of his eyes was enough to suggest that the thought may have crossed Dom's mind. 

"Might have considered it," Dom muttered, as his fingers tightened on Billy's kilt, the sheer pressure causing the kilt to shift on Billy's hips. "Shit," he breathed, as Billy's fingers tugged on the light material of Dom's pants, "We can't stay here, Bills," Dom mumbled after a moment, pulling away. 

"Fucking right we can't," Billy agreed, as he reluctantly removed his hand from the tight confines of Dom's trousers, "We're bloody going upstairs. Where I intend to make you come, Dom. You're going to feel my mouth on your cock." Billy was well aware that his mouth appeared to have a mind of its own this evening; a separate and entirely wanton character that had no other desire than the appeasement of its sexual desires. However, as Dom's reaction was to fumble with his own zip, forcing it shut over his cock and then to push Billy back against the wall and kiss him, Billy was beginning to believe that Dom's mouth was well in control of Dom's psyche too. 

Dom kissed like nobody else—Billy wouldn't go as far as to say it was the best kiss he'd ever had—drunken sexual experiences tended to lose something in the exploration, and Billy wasn't quite up to the in-depth analysis required to make a comparative study at this particular time - but the feel of Dom's lips pressed against Billy's, and the slide of wet tongue into Billy's mouth was enough to make him moan and for Dom to open his mouth a little wider, sucking Billy's tongue into his own (hot, wet, _hot_ ) mouth. Dom kissed with everything he had; he kissed with every fibre of his being and with his whole body concentrated on Billy. He kissed with fingers (finding their way down Billy's arms, and intertwining with hot, sticky palms, and running through Billy's hair), and knees (pressing into Billy's groin with an insistent push) and torso (against Billy's; rubbing minutely with Dom's every movement), and he kissed with his mouth and tongue and teeth (pulling on Billy's lip, nibbling on Billy's tongue, exploring every inch of Billy's mouth, inviting Billy to taste wine, and cigarettes and chocolate in his own). Dom kissed with all five senses; with touch, and taste, and sounds (breathing into Billy's mouth, mumbling words against Billy's kiss, whispering 'Billy, Billy' with rushed, heavy breaths on Billy's cheek), and sight (forcing Billy's eyes to open and look into Dom's, where darkness shrouded anticipation, desire and want) and smell (running his tongue down Billy's throat, breathing in Billy's scent, and inviting Billy to do the same). Dom kissed like he fucking meant it. 

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Billy muttered, as Dom pulled away and looked at him with dark eyes and reddened, swollen lips. "We can get a fucking room and then I'm going to get you naked."

Dom grinned. "Let's go back to my place instead," he shrugged, pressing his knee into Billy's groin, shifting the sporran in the process. "It's only five minutes in a taxi. I've got a king-size and I reckon I've changed the sheets recently."

At that point, Billy would have agreed to shag Dom in the middle of the sodding dance floor, such was the pull of Dom's eyes and the throb of his aching erection beneath his kilt. He grinned. "Best offer I've had all night."

Dom raised an eyebrow, "Oh yeah?" he muttered, and pressed his mouth to Billy's ear, his breath hot and ticklish. "Better than me offering to fuck you into the mattress once we get there?"

Billy gulped, and with a shaking hand, his fingers found the curve of Dom's arse, squeezing with a grip rougher than he'd expected. "Not that good, no," he managed, shifting so he could whisper in Dom's ear, "but perhaps as good as me licking every inch of your body until you come..." 

Dom grinned quickly, his voice coming thick and fast and wavering, " _Every_ inch?" he blinked. 

Billy smiled, slowly, pulling away and adjusting his sporran (wonderful, amazing, delectable, fantastic, excellent sporran) to cover his straining cock. Still looked a bit like he'd pitched a tent under there, but all he had to do was get across the ballroom and out the front of the hotel and he was home free. "Every single inch. Every fucking millimetre if that's what it takes." He winked, forgetting for a moment that he was still relatively drunk and that such a movement would cause his brain considerable meltdown. He swayed slightly on his feet, and reached for the wall to support him. Dom eyed him with something akin to concern. 

"You're not going to regret this, are you Billy?" he asked quickly, and Billy narrowed his eyes, his fingers itching against the rough brick beside him. 

"Dominic," Billy said, as he attempted to concentrate on anything but the aching throb of his hard on, and to tear his mind away from the arresting image of him spooning ice cream across Dom's chest, "I've just told you I want to get your clothes off and lick you all over and fuck you in a bed of chocolate buttons. Does that sound like something I'm going to regret?"

Dom made a noise that could have been a growl in any other circumstances. "You didn't mention the chocolate buttons." 

Billy smiled. "Didn't I?" 

Dom leant over him, "No, I would have remembered _that_." With a sound that on any other occasion Billy would have termed a groan, Dom leisurely ran his tongue down Billy's cheek. "I would have remembered if you'd offered to let me lick melted chocolate off of you."

Christ. And Billy had thought he was fucked before. He was completely, utterly, totally, fucked. His brain was somewhere on the ground, writhing, begging Dom not to stop. _Not to ever, ever fucking stop_ , Billy begged, literally begged his mouth not to say it out loud. For once, his mouth yielded to the complicated thought processes of Billy's oversexed, strained, drunken, confused mind, and stayed firmly shut, except to make some sort of moan which, if pressed, Billy would wholeheartedly dismiss as not being him. 

And now, to top it all off, to make it worse, he appeared to be sodding whimpering as Dom nibbled on his ear, and his tongue continued its leisurely descent down Billy's cheek, coming to rest in the damp hollows of Billy's neck, flickering gently over the pulse in Billy's throat. And yes, he was clinging— _clinging_ —onto Dom's biceps, as if attempting to remove his fingers (where they were sure to leave bruises on the tender skin beneath Dom's suit) would result in him sliding to the floor in some mushy pool of sexual desire. 

Dom's tongue needed a fucking award. The world should be aware of this muscle, Billy told himself, as he tried (and failed) to swallow a moan as Dom discovered the tiny patch of skin (sensitive, oh so fucking sensitive, Billy thought his groin might be on fucking fire the first time Dom's tongue had ghosted over the damp skin) at the base of Billy's throat, where his neck met his collarbone, which appeared to be the magical door to Billy's cock. Christ, Billy realised, he must be fucking out of his tree if he was postulating the existence of secret doors to his penis, this was hardly sodding Narnia, this was a shag that was about to occur on a terrace if they didn't get out of here _soon_. "Dom..." he let out a ragged breath and Billy was shocked that the low, husky voice belonged to him, "Dom... stop it, we need to get the fuck out of here before I flip out completely and start telling you about magical doors to my dick..."

Dom snorted. "What the fuck are you on about, Bills?" He shook his head, pressing his lips to Billy's briefly before stepping backwards, rolling his shoulders and cricking his neck. "There's a secret door to your dick?"

Billy blushed. Yep, not at the fact he'd actually managed to have a conversation about his sexual fantasies with his best friend; - oh no, not that—but at the stupid fucking idiotic stuff he managed to come up with as a result of a couple of bottles of wine and a tendency to say the first thing that came into his head. "Shut up, and promise me you won't remind me of that when I'm sober." His eyes wandered lazily down Dom's torso, eyeing the purple shirt (crumpled where Billy's fists had clung on for dear life), half hanging out of the charcoal trousers where Billy had tugged at it, attempting to get into Dom's pants the more conventional way, until, finally they came to rest on the bulge in Dom's trousers. "The door to your dick isn't exactly secret, is it, Dom?"

Dom glanced down at his crotch. "You'd better fucking believe it, Bill." He sighed, his breath ragged, running his fingers through his hair. "Where's my jacket—I'll just hold it in front of my trousers till we're outside again." He grinned, and reached for Billy's hand, shifting at the last moment to get a good grip on Billy's forearm. "Let's get out of here, then I can get you naked without worrying we're about to be disturbed by every single person we work with."

Billy smiled, nodding at where Dom had left his jacket (in the heat of the moment) on the patio table with an almost full bottle of wine. "We've got to be subtle, Dom, else everyone will take the piss out of us on Monday morning—us shagging will be the worst kept secret in the history of... um..."

"...in the history of worst kept secrets?" Dom finished for him. He grinned, taking a sideways look through the open door into the ballroom. "When you're wasted, stumbling across the room with a hard on the size of a fucking mountain under your kilt, and I'm following, making sure you don't fall over and with a strategically placed jacket across my crotch? The chances of this going unnoticed are minimal."

"I've got a sporran," Billy said sulkily, indicating the best erection-hider in the history of the world. Except, of course, it was pushed out a little from where it normally rested, but unless you were staring quite hard, you probably wouldn't have noticed too much, "and I'm not wasted. I'm just a bit merry, that's all..."

"Nah, Bills, you've got it all wrong. I'm Merry; you're Pippin."

Billy snorted. "Idiot." He took a careful look into the ballroom. "And since you told me I have a fucking mountain under my kilt, there's nothing I can do. I may as well just run with it."

"Billy..." Dom warned. 

Billy shot him a grin, and raised an eyebrow. "Let's just do it, Dom. Sooner we get through there, the sooner I can free this _mountain_ and get on with shagging you."

Dom shrugged. "Fuck it. Come on. Let's pretend we're tanks, then we can just mow down everything in our path."

Billy raised an eyebrow. "And _you're_ the sober one?"

"Can we just get naked already?" Dom moaned. "And I'm not sober, I'm just less drunk than some people round here, that's all."

"Anyone ever told you you're an idiot, Dom?" Billy grinned, and stuck his head round the door into the ballroom, away from the shadowy recesses of the terrace and into the dim, coloured glare of the reception disco. In retrospect, heading out to the terrace to get it on with Dom had been a piss poor idea; if they wanted to get to the taxi rank unobserved, Billy was now faced with the prospect of having to get across the crowded ballroom without making sure he and Dom were top of everyone's gossip lists come Monday morning. Out on the dance floor - across the milling groups of people - he could make out Elijah and Orlando bopping away to _Simply the Best_ , which in normal circumstances would be a guarantee of future ribbing. However, even Billy, in his current state of heightened desire and inebriation was aware that what he and Dom were about to get up to would rate higher on the teasing scale than bad taste in bopping cheese. Crossing the ballroom in full view of every single person they worked with would not be a good idea if they wanted to keep this under their hats. Especially as Dom was still tucking his shirt into his trousers with his free hand (Billy still having a tight grip on his other hand, mostly for purposes of balance, but still...), Dom's jacket swinging ominously in front of his crotch. They couldn't make their intentions any clearer if they erected a giant neon sign above their heads, flashing 'look who's just got it on, guys, yeah, over here, have a good look who's nipping off for a shag (hopefully involving a variety of foodstuffs, if Billy gets his way, which he fully intends to)'. Nope, this was clearly a bad idea. "Any other way out of here, Dom?" he asked finally, shifting backwards so that his arse pressed against Dom's erection (through the jacket, unfortunately, which was another reason Billy had no intention of going through the hotel to get to the taxi rank—his intention was to _remove_ layers of clothing from the object of his desire, not to add them for reasons of public decency). 

Dom groaned, his hips pressing forwards and his cock pushing against Billy's arse. He dropped the shirt he was attempting to tuck back into his trousers and his hand reached for Billy's hip, pulling him even closer. Billy felt Dom's breath on his neck, and instinctively, his leaned his head to the left, leaving his neck open for Dom's immediate attention. Dom's tongue began to explore the damp skin beneath Billy's ear, the heat of his breath causing Billy's hips to unconsciously press back harder against Dom, and for Dom (in a voice flushed with heat, and gruff from unexpressed groans), to maintain that they were "heading through the fucking rosebushes. Now. Fucking now." Dom shifted his hips, pushing his erection against the curve of Billy's arse and the thick tartan of the kilt. "Before I have to pull your kilt up and fuck you right here and now, Bills."

Billy eyed the rosebushes with some distaste for a fraction of a second as his brain made sense of Dom's comment. Again, one of those lines which Billy hoped he'd remember forever—fuelling more than one future night time wank, he was sure. His dick throbbed, and his heart raced. "Fucking yeah," he muttered, grabbing hold of Dom's hand and yanking him off the terrace and onto the dark, damp mud of the hotel flowerbeds. Somewhere behind him came a sharp exclamation of pain from Dominic—perhaps Dom wasn't overly appreciative of Billy's attempts at dislocation in order to get a good shag in the very near future—but Billy was on a mission. "Shut up, Dom, and help me find a way out of here. We need a taxi, and we need one _now_."

Billy stopped short as he came up against a seemingly impenetrable thigh-high wall of rosebushes. Dominic bounced into the back of him with an 'oomph'. 

"This is a fucking joke," Dom laughed, rubbing his shoulder. 

"Are we men or mice, Dominic?" Billy asked, raising an eyebrow and focusing all his attention on Dom's darkened profile. Not long now, he told himself, with all the rabid glee of a horny dog. Not long now. 

"This better not ruin my suit," Dom muttered darkly, as he followed Billy into the undergrowth, thorns sticking into his legs and catching on his trousers. An ominous ripping noise filled the air, and Dom froze in mid step. 

"It's alright, Dom," Billy said brightly, tugging on Dom's wrist to start him moving again, "I'll tend to your wounds."

"Oh great," Dom said, dryly, his voice sounding as if he were trying to hide sounding so bloody upset over some sodding material and a nice bit of stitching. "Drunk Billy attempting to look after me. Just what I need," he shook his head, pushing through the last of the rosebushes and onto the tiled pathway leading round to the front of the hotel. 

"I will look after you though," Billy retorted, "I'll make sure you're all clean, and not bloody, and, um, sated."

"I'm not sure 'sated' is something doctors tend to aim for, Bills." Dom said, trying to examine the rip in his trouser leg in the half-light from the hotel windows.

Billy shrugged, and tugged on Dom's sleeve again, "If more doctors aimed for sated, then there'd be much fuller waiting rooms," he explained, half dragging Dom round the side of the building. 

"I think that's the problem, Bills," Dom grinned, "other than the malpractice suits, that is." He leaned forward and felt Billy's hip with damp fingers (muddy from wiping the soil off his cuffs), pressing hard on the sensitive skin around Billy's groin. Billy hissed. "Anyway, can we stop talking about fucking doctors and fucking lawyers and concern ourselves with the matter in hand?"

Billy pouted. "My matter isn't in anyone's hands." He blinked. That had perhaps sounded better inside his head. Judging by the snorting noise Dom was currently emitting from behind his hands, he wasn't the only one to think so. 

Dom grinned, and curled his hand around Billy's hip, pulling him backwards so that Billy bumped backwards against Dom's erection. Insistent fingers cupped Billy's hard penis through the kilt, and Dom's voice was hot and heavy and ticklish against his ear in the still of the evening. "Is this what you meant, Boyd?" he muttered, his touch sending Billy bucking for more. 

"Can we go home now?" Billy managed eventually, as Dom's erection grazed his arse for the hundredth time, and his cock ached for the firm touch of Dom's fingers. Billy was beginning to be of the opinion that his brain was about to explode, and quite frankly, he couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be when his brain finally gave up the ghost and leaked out of his ears and onto the terrace—Dom's arms tightly encircling him, fingers pressing against his erection, Dom's lips on his throat. 

Dom laughed against Billy's neck, inching him the few steps forward to the taxi rank, his arms still tight around Billy's chest. "Fuck yeah," he muttered, the words sticky and hot against Billy's skin. Billy shivered, and he honestly thought he might break in two, the rate at which his heart was thundering beneath his chest. He couldn't remember ever being this turned on—his cock was weeping beneath his kilt, the feel of the rough wool against the sensitive skin of his penis was enough to make him groan and for him to clutch at Dom's hands, aching for the touch of burning hot skin beneath his own blazing touch. "And when we get there," Dom whispered in Billy's ear, the cascading rhythm of the words meaning that Billy was hardly aware of what was being said, and was only conscious of the fact that he was quite capable of coming, right here and right now, on a sultry evening outside a hotel with only Dom to hold him upright. Dom's lips grazed his throat, and Billy fought to swallow, every essence of his being concentrated on the insistent press of Dom's fingers on his sticky skin, and then Dom spoke, and all around Billy, thunder crashed. "I'm going to stick my cock up your arse, and fuck you until morning."

 

There were some sentences, Billy reflected (as his breath caught in his throat, and his fingers flew to his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep the words quiet and private that Billy couldn't help but mouth helplessly against the night sky— _Dominic_ , and _now_ , and _please, God, yes,_ and _Dommie_ and _Now_ ), that were designed primarily as a tool for making someone bend over and yank their own kilt upwards and beg to be fucked. And judging by the dark glint in Dom's eyes as he pressed harder against Billy's arse and swept his tongue down Billy's throat—eliciting a noise that some people might refer to as a squeak but Billy chose to refer to as a particularly manly growl—Billy wasn't the only person aware of these particular (wonderful, heady, hot, harsh, crude, _hot_ ) amalgamations of words. 

Billy swallowed, all but frozen to the spot. All thoughts of dragging Dom into the nearest taxi and straddling him against the bri-nylon of the back seats had somehow slipped his mind, and instead he thought of Dom—naked, hot and erect—straddling _Billy_ , pressing _Billy_ to the bed and licking up melted caramel off _Billy's_ nipples, before fucking _Billy_ into the middle of next week. Too much Billy—he knew that, but he was inherently selfish at heart, especially when it was his sexual gratification at stake. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry and aching for the touch of Dom's lips against his, and the intrusive (welcome) pressure of Dom's tongue against his. This was not something he had intended to happen—Billy had no history of aching for anyone's touch, and to start with Dominic was verging on the fucking embarrassing. Yet he felt the hard, insistent push of Dom's cock against his arse, and he couldn't help but _grind_ back against Dominic. He couldn't help but think of Dom licking—biting—his way up Billy's inner thigh; couldn't help but think of Dom sucking his cock... Billy couldn't fucking cope with the sensory overload. This was _too much_. Any more of this thinking malarkey and he was going to be on the floor, writhing. And that was probably going to be embarrassing. A sneaky little voice in his head—which clearly had little or no respect for Billy's reputation and was therefore probably very closely related to his sex drive at the moment—muttered that wouldn't Billy quite enjoy getting down and dirty on the floor with Dominic— _where anyone could catch them_? Billy raised an eyebrow and attempted to point out that in no way was he the voyeuristic sort, he liked his sex in a bed behind a locked door like any self respecting Scotsman, thank you very much, but the sneaky voice wasn't having any of it. _Wouldn't you like it_ , it whispered, with breath like mist that crept and insinuated itself into the cotton wool of Billy's brain, _you'd love it if Dom were to fuck you right here, right here up against the wall_... Billy's gaze flicked to the shadows. His mind attempted to wander in the general direction of getting Dom naked right here and right now, unzipping his flies (again) and finally letting that cock breathe the night air—Billy would clearly be doing it a favour in getting some fresh air to Dom's nether regions, and Billy was always one to do the right thing - but the idea of being caught sucking Dom off by Sean Bean or sodding Elijah or, well, anyone - was enough for his dick to stop it's tumultuous heart beat and threaten to diminish once more. Billy was having none of that. They were going home, and they were going fucking now. 

That was, of course, until Dom's fingers crept their way under his sporran, and _pressed_. The sound of Billy's breath came loud and harsh against the sultry, humid evening air—even with the pressure of the oncoming rain, Billy was hard pressed to recognise the sound of his own voice on the air, let alone the imminent arrival of wet weather. The only thing Billy was paying any attention to was the tightening of Dom's fingers against his hip and against his erection, the feel of Dom's breath against his neck and the push—fuck, the practical melding of their bodies into one sinewy, sweaty whole—of Dom's erection against his arse. And no, he couldn't do other than press backwards against Dom's groin, rocking on his heels to increase the minute friction between arse and cock. His fingers—hot, sticky and desperate—wavered in mid air, searching for something to grab onto, and Dom's forearms were the unfortunate targets. Fingers gripped like iron, the palms damp and sweltering against the smooth cotton of Dom's shirt. Dom would fucking live to regret this, Billy thought haphazardly as something resembling a girly sigh escaped Billy's damp lips, and Billy fought to cover it up with a thoroughly unnecessary clearing of the throat. Yet all the time he was pushing back against Dominic, his hands burning their possession against Dom's skin, breathing hot and heavy incomprehensible sounds against the night air. Billy couldn't have halted the movement if he'd tried—in fact Billy was hard pressed to think of a time when he could think about anything other than the relative closeness of Dom's body (wiry, hot, fucking turned on, pressed up against him like there was only this one pocket of air in the whole fucking world, and they had to _share_ ) and the way their skin melded into one and you couldn't make out the joins between their respective bodies. Dom yanked at Billy's shirt in order to gain access to the hollow of Billy's collarbone, and the top button was the unfortunate casualty as it pinged somewhere in the general direction of the wall. Droplets of sweat beaded against Billy's forehead as Dom's lips met the sticky skin of Billy's shoulder. Billy whimpered— _fuck_ —and his fingers, desperate for the touch of skin on skin, scrabbled at Dom's cuffs.

"Cufflinks!" Dom breathed, the exhalation causing the hairs to rise on the back of Billy's neck and for Billy to clamp down (with considerable pressure, there would be _bruises_ and then who would rue the day) on Dom's wrists with an unyielding grip. Dom had apparently been attempting to convey that care of his cufflinks was significantly more important than Billy's need (and oh fucking bejesus, the _need_ ) for some form of gratification, even if it was only the opportunity to burn that want onto Dom's wrists. 

Billy was unimpressed with Dom's priorities, and demonstrated this by shifting slightly (pulling away, so as to break the contact between arse and cock, and in doing so, breaking the iron grip Dom's holding him in) so that his eyes met Dom's. "Cufflinks, Dominic?" he muttered, facing his prey. 

Dom was already reaching for him again, his eyes even darker than normal because of the beguiling effect of heat and sweat on carefully applied eyeliner. That's what came of wearing makeup, Billy thought, fucking _girl_ (even if just the thought of Dom and those dark eyes was enough to make his hips press forwards and his mouth dry), but then Billy's train of thought came to an abrupt halt because he'd made the mistake of letting his gaze drift downwards, where it had come to rest on Dom's erection. Billy's eyes widened; no longer was he fostering any illusions, he'd fucking done that. He could fucking do more than just that, as well. He could make him fucking _come_. His own cock jumped. 

"Fuck the cufflinks," Dom muttered, and his hands - (another part of Dom's anatomy Billy had never properly considered, but now Billy couldn't really imagine a time when he wasn't thoroughly obsessed with all things Dom-related, and hands were pretty much integral to the whole Dom experience. Just like mouths and tongues (and oh my god, he had a fucking fantastic tongue on him) and, well, just _Dom_ in his entirety)—his hands were reaching for Billy, fingers encircling his biceps, pressing against the skin like manacles. 

"I'd rather fuck you," Billy breathed, his fingers finding Dom's. 

The sharp intake of breath, the yank on Billy's hand that had Billy pressed uncomfortably (perfectly) up against Dom's chest and the insistent bite of Dom's teeth against Billy's neck was enough to suggest that Billy wasn't the only one who was horribly overexcited and perilously close to spilling his load all over the hotel forecourt. 

Billy smiled (some would say evilly, but they underestimated) in recognition, and his eyes caught Dominic's in the orange glare of the street lamps. "Who's to say you're going to be the only one doing the fucking, huh, Dom?" Billy muttered again, and the tip of his tongue darted out and caught the end of Dom's nose.

Lightning flashed in Dom's eyes, and Billy found himself in an iron grip, where arms were so tight around him that the sudden, insistent and painful press of his shirt buttons against his breast bone caused Billy to let out a muffled yelp against the abrupt, persistent pressure of Dom's lips against his own. If there was ever any reason that should forget this (hot, sticky, hard, _amazing_ ) night—say because of the sheer volume of alcohol he'd imbibed in the last few hours, or because the sexual attraction radiating off of him and Dom (where had they been hiding it all this time, come on, this wasn't _new_ , this was fucking deep rooted) would send a Geiger counter ricocheting off into space—then the bruises that already peppered his skin would serve to remind him otherwise. 

Anyway, Billy was more than adamant that he wouldn't be forgetting this particular night any time soon. He was fairly sure he'd be able to recall every single pesky minute detail till he breathed his last—or, at least, for a very long time to come (to _come_ , he thought to himself, and he _sodding giggled_ ). Billy's reaction to uttering such an embarrassing noise was for his typical defence mechanism to kick in half way through, whereupon he attempted (drunkenly) to turn the noise into an over enthusiastic hiccup. Luckily Dominic didn't seem to notice, obsessed as he was at the current moment with propelling Billy in the general direction of the taxi rank whilst kissing him—which is probably the only reason Billy got away with such a girly set of noises—the fact that Dom probably thought the vibrations were all part of some elaborate 'Billy gets his best mate hot and bothered' plan, rather than the truth, which was, of course, that Billy had about as much chance of getting through this night with his reputation as a Real Man intact as he had of passing a police breathalyser. Especially as Billy was currently imagining indulging in profiteroles and chocolate sauce off of Dom's concave stomach, and not paying attention to taking notes on the little details of this evening; this _run up_ to seeing Dom naked, to kissing Dom naked, to enjoying the touch of Dom naked, to having Dom naked there in front of him. Billy was beginning to think he had a one-track mind. Not that he minded, actually, in fact he was eternally grateful as the other alternative was to have his mind wander to other things—like football and pizzas and shopping lists—rather than concentrating on the matter in hand. In fact, he positively thanked his lucky stars that he was able to concentrate fully on Dom and how he wasn't one of those people whose mind wandered towards other, more mundane things. As Dom's tongue licked his nose, and then Dom reached up and kissed his eyebrow—probably tasting salt considering Billy had been unsexily sweating for quite a considerable time now—and his teeth nipped at Billy's ear and the friction of Dom's arm shifting against his shirt caused his cock to leap, Billy joined in with the dragging in the general direction of the taxi rank. This had been going on for far too long. There was a distinct possibility that there could be two shagged out hobbits passed out by the taxis at the end of the night if they didn't get a shitting move on right about now. He inched closer to the taxi. 

"Oh yeah?" Dom muttered, and his long tongue lapped at Billy's nose, "Is that a promise?" 

_Is what a promise?_ Billy clearly hadn't been paying attention. He narrowed his eyes and attempted to work out what he'd missed. Bugger. He was disappointing himself here, and proving himself wrong (something he never wanted to do, actually, for he was a Man In Charge Of His Own Sexual Destiny and not just some drunk in need of a shag). Billy caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and rather than follow it through to its natural conclusion and actually move his head, Billy decided to do the next best thing. He continued groping Dominic in the vain hope that if Billy couldn't see whoever was interloping, then they certainly couldn't see Billy and Dom either. Somewhere in the recesses of Billy's mind—the sober part, the part he'd consigned to the shed the moment he'd bought those last bottles of wine—he realised that he was probably putting on a show for the whole damn hotel. Reason told him that if him and Dom didn't get in that bloody taxi _soon_ then there would be a performance on the front terrace, one which involved public decency laws and policemen and news stories and a whole series of red faces. And didn't that lead to a whole series of imagery Billy wouldn't have given headspace to before this evening—arresting images of him and Dom, half naked and handcuffed. Billy attempted to ignore the jump his cock made at the idea of Dom handcuffed to the bed (nasty, tricksey little—well not so little—erection, _now_ it was pointing out what sort of things turned Billy on, no, not when he was fifteen and masturbating in every free minute, but when he was over thirty and supposedly old enough to know what he wanted and when he wanted it) and Billy decided to concentrate on Dom instead. His fingers inched downwards, over Dom's smooth, smoky suit, coming to rest on his erection, cupping roughly. His eyes met Dom's and he muttered "Get in the fucking taxi, Dominic, before I rip your clothes off right here and right now." His fingers squeezed Dom's erection, and Billy rocked on his heels. "Then we'll see if it's a promise or not, shall we?" 

Billy smiled, surely, amazed at his restraint and proud of his ability to utter a sentence that had the propensity to have him come in his boxers (if he were wearing any, which he wasn't, but that was clearly beside the point) without once betraying that he was close to whimpering. Nope, he was behaving impeccably. He gave himself a big metaphorical pat on the back. 

"Right." Dom waggled an eyebrow. "We will." Dom grabbed Billy's forearm firmly and dragged him the few remaining yards to the taxi. Billy had the distinct impression he'd just tripped over someone's foot, but considering the speed at which Dom propelled him towards the cab, he didn't have a chance to check just how drunk he was to be imagining people's feet when clearly there weren't any. Dom yanked open the door of the first taxi he saw, jumping in. 

He forgot to let go of Billy's arm, so Billy ricocheted painfully into the side of the car. 

Typical, Billy thought as he climbed into the car with all the grace and sophistication of a drunken fool, just sodding typical. He sank down onto the seat with all the style and aplomb of, well, _Dom_ , and stared in some consternation at his hands. Just moments earlier, those fingers had been touching Dom's, well, penis, (even if it had been through clothing, this was definitely a step up from anything that had come before. There had definitely _not_ been touching of general groin area before this evening—and rather than breathing a sigh of relief and consigning this encounter to that group referred to as 'drunken one night stands', Billy was relatively surprised to find himself asking _why not_? and wondering how he'd got through the whole of the shoot so far without giving in to the desire to rip Dom's clothes off and provide him with a good rogering. And yes. He'd said rogering. There would have to be a **conversation** soon, where Billy pointed out to his poor, diseased mind that such words were strictly out of bounds) and there was something about this whole evening that was making Billy's head spin. And before his conscience could pipe up (Billy was heartily sick of his conscience this evening, and was beginning to plot a stealthy demise for said irritation involving only a spoon and a trail of drips of ice cream and an axe), Billy was quick to deny that the spinning and the confusion were entirely down to the alcohol. This was strange. He was giving in to the temptation to rip Dom's clothes from his body, and it appeared that the desires were reciprocated. He blinked. He was fighting the desire to lean across the cab and undo the buttons to Dom's shirt using only his teeth. He was also fighting the desire to pull Dom's trousers down and finally give his dick the release it had been demanding for the duration of the evening, but he was still at the stage when the presence of the taxi driver was a serious turn off for this particular plan, and for this Billy was extremely grateful. There were still things that were indeed sacred, and shagging Dom appeared to be one of those things. Especially if shagging Dom was to involve a variety of foodstuffs, and a great deal of melted chocolate. And licking. Oh, to be in Britain now, where the air was sweet and the chocolate tasted better. Billy was currently wondering what would happen if he were to break a Cadbury's flake into pieces on Dom's belly and then lean in, until the chocolate was melted and mixed in a gooey mess on their stomachs. His cock leapt. 

Fuck. This was going to be a long drive home.

"What are you doing over there?" Dom asked, as Billy fiddled with the seatbelt. Dom had his hand on Billy's thigh through his kilt as the taxi pulled away from the kerb, and Billy had obviously missed the order to depart, lost (as he was) in deep desires involving Dominic naked. "Come closer, hobbit." 

His fingers squeezed Billy's thigh, and it was all Billy could do not to squeak. Fingers—Dom's, long, hard, soft, intrusive, welcome (if there was one word to describe this evening, Billy might have chosen _paradox_ )—fingers crept up his leg, homing in on his erection (sporran, Billy told himself desperately, as he was overcome with the need to just throw his head back in the back of the Mondeo and just let Dom get on with it—fuck the taxi driver, and all his little dogs too). 

Billy shut his eyes tight. _Margaret Thatcher, Ann Widdecombe, Margaret Thatcher Naked, Gary Barlow_ , Dom (shut up) _um, Gimli, Michael Portillo, Mars Bars_ , Dom (shut the fuck up, evil subconscious) _Jo Brand, Margaret Thatcher_. He gave up. Dom's fingers had crept under the sporran, and the noise Billy made was the closest thing to a moan he'd made all evening. Dom shifted across into the gap that separated them, and smiled slowly as his fingers slid into that gap between the heavy wool of his kilt and the worn leather of his sporran. Billy couldn't help but arch towards him, his buttocks clenching and his hips lifting off the grey of the seat to buck into Dom's insistent fingers. 

Dom grinned. Evilly. Slowly. Widely. 

Billy swallowed, his fingers convulsively gripping the edge of the car seat, his other hand itching to touch Dom. His hand closed over Dom's knee, and with every insistent push of Dom's fingers, Billy squeezed, harder. All the time never looking away from Dom's face, seeing Dom's eyes widen with every clutch and grab of Billy's fingers. His breath came in short (hot, wet, _desperate_ ) gasps, his mouth open and his lips dry. Billy licked them, quick flicks of his long tongue, feeling the deafening thud of his heartbeat as Dom's gaze flicked from Billy's eyes to fix on Billy's dry mouth. 

Was there any fucking _air_ in this goddamn taxi? Billy gulped, his head lolling back against the headrest, his gaze never leaving Dom's face. His hand slid up Dom's thigh, feeling the rough itch of Dom's smoky suit beneath his palm, tickling the sensitive skin on the underside of his hand as it inched towards Dom's crotch. 

Not long now, his brain told him haphazardly, as a few more nerve endings exploded with the pressure and various parts of his mind gave up the ghost and shut down completely. It can't be much longer now, Billy told himself, with all the vain hope of someone who really couldn't think past the next two seconds, and certainly couldn't think of anything else but _Dominic_ and _Now_ and _Naked_ and _Fuck me_. 

Billy was open to the possibility that he might have a one-track mind. 

Dom's breath ghosted across his flushed cheek, and Billy felt the hot, wet dart of Dom's tongue on the end of his nose. Dom's eyes glittered—dark, deep and inviting. His fingers _squeezed_. 

Billy gasped. He was fairly adamant about that one-track mind thing now; the rest of his brain had just melted and was gushing out of his ear and down his shirt as he spoke. No opportunity to think about anything but Dominic. Not a bad way to spend the rest of his known existence, Billy told himself, pondering the rest of his life thinking about nothing but Dom. His body _ached_. And yes, he thought that that was something entirely consigned to the pages of bad romance novels, but it appeared he was desirous of Dom's touch to the extent that his cock throbbed for him and his whole body sodding, fucking _ached_. 

If Billy hadn't been robbed of the facility to glower (apparently due to extreme sexual frustration), he would have had a damn good try at it right about now. His mind was fucking showing him up this evening. There was going to be Trouble later on; Billy was going to have to sit down and give himself a Damn Good Talking To. There would have to be some finger waggling and stern looks, and then there would be a period of silence as all parties partook of a bit of sulking, but Billy was confident that an Understanding could be reached which would avoid all further embarrassment. Either that or he'd have to lock himself in a darkened room in a high tower and throw away the key, to rock backwards and forwards for the rest of eternity muttering trite romance novel metaphors like 'waves lapping on the shore' and 'velvet sheathed sword of passion' under his breath. He shivered at the prospect, and turned his attention back to the lazy exploration of Dom's long fingers under his sporran. He felt Dom's damp breath against his open mouth, then the briefest touch of Dom's lips to his. Billy made an unintelligible sound. 

Dom pulled away, leaning forward to rest his arm along the back of the front seat as he spoke to the taxi driver. "Yeah, mate, just here. Won't be a minute." His voice sounded more like the Dom that Billy was familiar with on a daily basis—the one who ponced about at weddings and played practical jokes on Bean and Viggo and teased Orlando mercilessly about being a soft southern nancy—and a lot less like the Dom who Billy had met this evening, who was all hooded eyes and nimble fingers and dark, husky promises. Billy was unable to decide which Dom he preferred, for his mind had conjured all these warm, sticky, _naked_ fantasies on the basis of Dom being the loud-mouthed gambolling idiot that punctuated his daily existence. On the other hand, however, regardless of how fucking hot those fantasies were (and the stifling heat coming off of his groin at the moment was offering vital support to this theory) nothing compared with the actuality of Dom licking his way down Billy's throat, or his hand on Billy's cock (even if it _was_ through layers of heavy wool and not the unbelievable touch of skin upon skin). But even if the taxi driver hadn't noticed, Billy had _heard_ the underlying waver beneath Dom's words; _seen_ the tremble of his fingers as they tapped their way across the back of the front seats. Billy knew that Dom wasn't his normal cocksure (although to be fair, he wasn't exactly cockunsure this evening), happy go lucky self, and Billy knew that all the credit for the transformation could be laid at his own, personal, bright red, shiny, perfect, extremely sexy and rather witty even if he did say so himself, front door. 

Billy was about to inform Dom of this newly garnered information about himself (for it never hurt to inform Dom of someone else's brilliance, it took his mind off his own for a time), when he realised he was alone on the back seat. He blinked. Closed his eyes, shook his head. Looked again. Nope. No Dom. _And_ the car had stopped moving. Which would explain why the taxi driver appeared unconcerned that the back door on Dom's side was open, and was currently engaged in re-tuning his radio, apparently in the hope of finding some nice, cheery Electric Light Orchestra. Or so it seemed, because the moment he found a scratchy rendition of _Xanadu_ , he turned it up and went back to staring out of the window.

Billy went back to wondering where Dom had got to, and whether this whole evening had been a rather nice dream. He glanced down at his sporran. Nope. His erection was still in full force. He was just lacking a Dominic, which was really rather a pain as he had been an integral part of the whole Dom'n'Billy get coital plan that Billy was fostering. He looked out of the window, and realised they were in a garage forecourt, and through the forest of petrol pumps and late night drivers, Billy could make out a familiar head bobbing up and down inside the shop. Billy raised an eyebrow. He must be out of it, because firstly he had no memory of Dom leaving, secondly he had no idea of where they had stopped, and thirdly, he was eyeing the world through rather hazy eyes. Whether that was the result of overindulgence in the alcohol department or just what happened if someone was promised the fucking of their lives, Billy was unsure. He shifted in his seat, attempting to get more comfortable. Billy knew that such movements were futile, as his dick had been erect for longer than he cared to remember now, and was probably due to be in the running for some sort of long-standing (he giggled, he couldn't help it, but at least his embarrassment was limited to the taxi driver, who just grunted and turned the radio up louder) award; he was so fucking sensitive that every minute movement of wool against his hot, damp, sticky cock was causing him to gasp and swallow loudly. He couldn't last out much longer, he really couldn't. His dick was fucking _weeping_ ; it was practically a travesty just to keep it hanging on much longer. 

So it was somewhat of a relief when Billy turned his attention back to staring out of the open taxi door, one hand curled around his door handle (probably leaving moist handprints all over the upholstery otherwise), the other relentlessly picking threads out of the seat (for if he didn't give his hands something to do and soon, they wouldn't be able to help themselves, and he'd be fucking _wanking_ in the back seat of the taxi, and that didn't bode well for anyone involved)—and anyway, Dom was loping across the forecourt, cradling a carrier bag in one hand and (subtly, Billy thought) carrying his jacket in front of his groin. Billy had to physically stop himself (clamping his own hand across his mouth) from shouting out Dom's name. 

"Subtle." Billy grinned as Dom slammed the car door shut, thrusting the carrier bag across the back seats and onto Billy's lap. 

"Necessary." Dom muttered, as the taxi pulled off. 

Billy raised an eyebrow (still a complicated manoeuvre and not one he was entirely convinced of in his current drunken (turned on) state), and pulled open the bag. He couldn't help but snort. Packets of condoms (extra thick, ribbed for _his_ pleasure, mint flavoured, banana flavoured— _Banana_? Billy laughed, and Dom had the grace to blush, muttering something about _just getting one of everything they had_ —non latex— _non latex_? And Dom had lowered his lashes and mumbled something about _not knowing if Billy was allergic_ —and Billy fought the urge to kiss him to death right about now) and... Billy gulped. There was a possibility (a very distinct possibility, which was something Billy had absolutely no intention of addressing right at the moment, but still, the possibility was there) that Billy might just love Dom. 

The carrier bag was full of chocolate bars. A whole bag of chocolate. Including a flake noir. What the fucking, fucking, fucking hell was a flake noir? Stuff Britain, he was staying here for good if they offered dark chocolate flakes. His mouth watered. His cock literally _thrummed_. He swallowed, his throat dry. "Chocolate?" he breathed, turning to meet Dom's eyes. 

"Chocolate." Dom agreed. A vein throbbed in Dom's neck. Billy fought the urge to bite it. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?" For the first time, Dom sounded unsure, and Billy was reminded that despite the alcohol and the kissing and the low husky words breathed into willing ears, this situation was something of an unknown quantity. 

Billy nodded slowly. "You're what I want," he said finally, and his fingers crept down Dom's cheek, feeling the shadowy beginnings of stubble beneath his touch. Dom's eyes flickered shut, and Billy fought the realisation that this whole evening had more invested in it than just a desire for a one off shag. How long had he wanted to do this and not even given the unnamed longing headspace? Pushing the carrier bag off onto the seat, his hand slid round from Dom's cheek to the back of his neck (damp beneath his touch), pulling his head closer to Billy's. "Come here, you daft sod." 

And Billy went to kiss him (slightly off centre, but then it was sheer luck that Billy hit the target at all, judging by the fact his vision had the propensity to go double at the most inopportune moments), their noses bumping as Billy opened his mouth, Dom laughing as they touched, the sound vibrating against Billy's tongue. And again, as before, Billy was fucking amazed by the sheer intensity of emotion that Dom put into every kiss. His fingers curled around Billy's forearms, his thumbs rubbing gently against the underside of Billy's wrists (who would have known that just the pressure of a thumb against that particular patch of soft skin would have Billy _moaning_ into Dom's mouth—and frankly, who gave a fucking shit if he sounded like a wimp right now, because Dom was making exactly the same noises back at him). Dom kissed like it was the only thing he was put on this earth to do. Dom kissed like he _meant_ it, which was enough to suggest to Billy that should he be kissing anyone else in the near future, no matter how skilled or adept or worthy of an Olympic gold they were, they would compare less than favourably to Dom (who was currently nibbling on Billy's lip and breathing 'Billy, Billy' against Billy's mouth, whilst cupping Billy's chin with one hand and running his thumb up the underside of Billy's throat). And Billy was certainly not addressing the fact that even the _thought_ of kissing somebody other than Dom was enough for a small slither of cold fear to unwind somewhere in the pit of his belly. Billy decided that the best way to get past the fact that he appeared to be advocating monogamy with his best friend was just to kiss back harder. With alacrity. To press his hand hard against Dom's chest—feeling the soft silk of his tie beneath his hand, to feel the undulating rush of Dom's heartbeat - to moan _Dominic_ against his mouth, to explore with his tongue and to taste the deep, deep red of the wine and the gentle reminder of Marlboro in the warm crevices of Dom's mouth. Billy kissed like _he_ meant it. 

"Ahem."

Apparently the taxi driver was less than impressed at having Dom and Billy in the back of his taxi wantonly kissing the life and soul out of each other, for he had stopped the cab and was peering back at them with a raised eyebrow. Either that, or—and Billy could hardly make it out, for he may have pulled away from the kiss at the driver's instruction, but his hand still pressed against Dom's chest, and his face (sticky and hot with sweat and desire) rested cheek to cheek against Dom's—or they were home, and the driver wanted his taxi back. 

Billy shot a sidelong glance out of the (steamed up) window into the dark night. Home. He might have guessed. Scrambling in his pockets for his wallet (always a problem when you were still wearing a seatbelt), Dom sighed and handed over a $20 note, telling the cab driver to keep the change. Billy finally unhooked himself from the seatbelt, and grabbing hold of the carrier bag, fell out of the door, Dom following closely behind. 

"So then," Dom grinned as he dusted himself off, and the red of the taxi taillights slowly disappeared from sight. He held a hand out for Billy. "Here we are."

Billy blinked. Here they were. So how come things were suddenly awkward, and they were edging from one foot to the other on Dom's driveway? How come they weren't running inside and ripping each other's clothes off with gay (Billy pardoned the pun) abandon? How come they were stood on a driveway, two feet apart, and Dom was holding Billy's hand?

Dom was looking at him, and his eyes were shrouded in darkness. His fingers gripped Billy's tightly. "You all right?" he asked, finally. "Because we don't have to do this if you don't want to."

Billy raised an eyebrow and pointed in the general direction of his sporran. "Does it look like I don't want to be doing this?" He shook his head and grinned. "I'm going to fucking explode if you don't make me come soon. Can we just think about what this all means later?"

Dom laughed, and pulled Billy closer, the carrier bag whacking him on the knee as he did so. He kissed Billy on the cheek, and his breath tickled as he whispered in Billy's ear, "I am going to fuck you so hard, Billy Boyd, that you won't be able to think straight. You'll be fucking begging for more."

Billy swallowed.

If Billy had been able to formulate actual thought processes (and not just stare across at Dom with wide eyes and a running commentary in his mind which went something like _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckDomfuck_ ) then this might have been the moment when Billy's brain exploded. It might have had something to do with Billy's realisation that all he wanted to do was to get Dom inside his house and peel that fucking fantastic, sexy charcoal suit away from hot, sticky, sweaty skin so he could bite his way up Dom's inner thigh and take Dom's cock in his mouth. The subsequent short-circuiting of Billy's brain may also have been down to the realisation that after sucking Dom off, Billy desperately wanted to fuck him into the middle of next week. 

Anyway, sometime around this point, Billy's brain exploded. Neurons and thought processes and sheer sensory deprivation (why the **fuck** weren't they touching?) and that was it: fragmentation, explosion, frazzling, kaput. His brain had given up the ghost and was point blank refusing to function any more. And Billy was utterly, utterly fucked. Not only was his brain-to-mouth mechanism flailing around not knowing its arse from its elbow; Billy couldn't seem to remember how to make his legs move. Whatever part of his brain controlled the brain-to-feet mechanism had just upped tools and stopped work, maintaining that it was unfair to make it work in these difficult conditions without some sort of incentive scheme. _We want better pay,_ his legs demanded, as they shook and wobbled a bit and sweat beaded behind his knees. _We want a bit of a sit down_ , they demanded, pointedly ignoring the fact that Billy wasn't paying any attention, but was instead watching Dom lick his lips with that long, pink, wet tongue. _Oh sod this_ , they said finally; _we want some fucking release, as soon as you can fucking manage it,_ they shouted. _We want a shag._

_Don't we all_ , Billy thought finally, his lips suddenly dry. Overwhelmed with images of himself with Dom's cock in his mouth, his tongue sliding its way up hot, veiny skin; his fingers finding their way to cup Dom's heavy balls... _fuck_. Billy swallowed, and the breath caught wetly in his throat. This was fucking useless. What the sodding, shitting, buggering, _shiteing_ hell were him and Dom still doing out here on the drive? Why weren't they inside, kissing and sucking and licking and fucking instead of still being out here, Dom stepping from foot to foot, the carrier bag brushing against his knee, his erection ( _oh my_ , Billy thought, _look at that_ ) prominent against the careful cut of his trousers. Why weren't they up on Dom's bed instead of standing here, Billy staring at Dom like he was some kind of idiot, the two of them frozen in the wet moonlight. 

It was that fucking brain of his that was doing this, Billy thought furiously, desperately trying to ignore those images ( _those_ ones, the one of his fingers edging and creeping their way up Dom's thighs, his touch entwined with the dark matting of hair) which were assailing him from the peripheries of his mind. It was that stupid idiot subconscious of his which was doing this (the one that hadn't thought to point out to him before this evening that he was quite keen on the idea of getting Dom naked, smothering him in ice cream and licking it up off his nipples), and now he was being bombarded with vivid sensory images of his fingers creeping the distance round to Dom's arse, stroking and touching and nudging their way into Dom's arse crack, whilst all the time he had his mouth around Dom's cock. 

Billy narrowed his eyes. 

_Billy the Cocksucker_. Not a nickname he'd previously thought appropriate for himself, but after the show his mind was putting on for him tonight, it appeared that it would make a fairly appropriate epitaph. Of course, at the moment it would have had to have read _Billy the wannabe cocksucker_ because Billy's legs were still refusing to move, and now he was frozen, watching Dom's spare hand inch it's way down Dom's chest (and all the time Dom's eyes were burning into Billy, shadowed and black and hooded and desperate and fucking _teasing_ him in the starlight) and Billy was watching Dom's hand wander it's way down over Dom's belt buckle, creeping the couple of inches to his erection, cupping it briefly and squeezing. Fucking _tease_. 

Billy groaned, his mouth dry and his cock pulsing against the thick wool weave of his kilt. "Dom," he said weakly. 

Dom grinned, and edged closer, dropping the carrier bag on the floor and sliding his hands around Billy's waist (long, long fingers, the touch causing the hairs to rise on the back of Billy's neck). Billy was just about sure that the pattern of his kilt would be imprinted forever on his hip with the iron grip that Dom was holding him in. Dom's hands edged their way around to Billy's arse, pulling Billy that one step closer to Dominic. Billy's legs still didn't appear to be working. He blinked, and wondered if there was a way to sack one's limbs for failing to act in an appropriate manner at times of great emergency or direst peril or, indeed, when you were in for the fucking of your life if you could only get close enough to touch. His train of thought was abruptly halted by the Dom closing the gap between them and pressing his erection up against Billy's sporran. Billy wrinkled his nose, suddenly incredibly pissed off at what had earlier been such a _good_ erection-hider. The sporran was now a thoroughly _bad_ erection-hider (a very naughty boy indeed, in fact, and Billy was forced to recognise that the area of his brain where he hid his Monty Python memories was the only part which appeared to be currently working) as the leather was currently stopping Billy from pressing his cock up close against Dom and whatever he was hiding underneath those trousers. Billy was determined to rid himself of all extraneous thoughts now, anything apart from just him and Dom and them being naked and for god's sake _now_ and how long could one man hold on before he came everywhere and dissolved in a spent, mushy puddle? And Billy was beginning to think he would never find out what Dom looked like naked and erect, because for fucks sake, how long did it take the two of them to get their clothes off and get on with it?

Billy _had_ to start paying attention, and he had to stop thinking about licking his way up the underside of Dom's cock—breathing in that sweaty, musky smell of sex and want and attraction. He had to stop thinking about his tongue tasting the salty flavour of _Dom_ at the end of his cock, tasting and savouring and swallowing and _oh my god_... Dom pressed his groin up against Billy's thigh (obviously his brain was on a more practical level than Billy's, he'd simply circumnavigated the rather irritating problem of Billy's (now) unpopular sporran and graduated to grinding against Billy's upper thigh) and Billy's world began to splinter and fragment at the edges. "Dom," he said again, the words hot against the ghosting of stubble on Dom's jaw. 

Dom responded with his teeth, nipping at the sensitive skin on the underside of Billy's chin, his tongue trailing a damp path to Billy's mouth. His fingers gripped Billy's forearms like iron, leaving Billy to urgently reach and press and push with flailing hands for Dom.

"Billy," Dom said, his breathing hurried against Billy's mouth. 

"What the fuck are we still doing outside," Billy managed, as Dom's erection pressed up against his leg, causing the minute scratching of wool against skin so sensitised by heat and lust and emotion that his cock leapt and his breath caught in his throat. 

"Good point," Dom muttered, his attention directed towards the biting of Billy's earlobe, and he let go of Billy's left arm to reach down and pick up the carrier bag full of chocolate and lube and condoms. 

That was one hell of a bag of tricks, Billy thought, his eyes finding Dom's and his lips suddenly dry. 

Billy's legs were certainly working now as Dom frogmarched him up to the front door, feeling in his pocket for his keys and swearing when he realised that he hadn't left the porch light on and he had to feel for the lock. 

Billy grinned as Dom bent over, feeling down the door for the keyhole. Billy's grin was verging on the fucking _demonic_ , his hands reaching automatically for the curve of Dom's arse, his fingers cupping and sliding their way around Dom's hips, across the hipbone and round, creeping down across his pelvis and feeling their way to Dom's groin, till stubby, calloused, shaking fingers found Dom's erection, hard and damp (even through the trousers, Billy realised, this was one turned-on boy) against Billy's palm. "Can you feel that," Billy said softly, as Dom swore under his breath and Billy squeezed gently. Billy groaned, wet against the night air, and he yanked his sporran to one side with what he hoped looked like a practiced air. It bumped against his thigh as he pressed himself up against the curve of Dom's arse, "Can you feel _this_ ," and his erection was pushing up against Dom.

" _Fuck_ , Bills," Dom breathed, his hips pressing backwards, pushing back against Billy.

Billy was fighting the realisation that Dom fitted him perfectly, like the missing piece of a puzzle finally slipping home. This was _not_ what he'd expected from this evening (even when he'd acknowledged that there was nothing he'd like better than to lick his way from ear to mouth - nipping Dom's lip between his teeth with a haphazard air - to finally rest on his cock). 

"Fuck," Dom said again, his free hand sneaking back (in a complicated manoeuvre that saw him navigating past Billy's arm, past a kilt and a prone sporran) to clamp against Billy's arse, holding Billy tight against the curve of Dom's trousers in the moonlight. " _Fuck_."

"I thought you'd never ask," Billy said, reaching away from Dom's erection and grabbing the key from Dom's shaking hand and forcing it into the lock. The key was cold after the heat of Dom's groin, and he turned it quickly, desperate to get inside. The door opened with a _click_ , and Billy nudged Dom inside, the carrier bag kicked over the threshold by a desperate, hot, hard, thoroughly over-excited (and had he already said desperate?) Billy. 

Dom pulled the key out of the front door, and dropped it somewhere by his foot, kicking the door shut behind him. It was even darker in his hallway, the moonlight only penetrating in tiny silver slithers through the closed curtains. Darker and _quieter_ ; in here there was no wind or the far off echoes of cars. No flutter of leaves against the breeze, just _them_. Dom and Billy. Just the two of them in the dark hallway, breath hot and hard and heavy and fucking _loud_ in the sudden silence. Billy's fist clenched against his side, his palm damp and shaking. His cock _pulsed._

They moved at the same instant, reaching for each other and coming together in a mess of limbs and the sweep of kilts against charcoal trousers. It seemed instinctive for Billy to have his fingers twisted in Dom's hair, curling the tendrils in the nape of his neck, his other hand sliding round to cup Dom's arse. It seemed instinctive for him to find Dom's mouth with his own—never mind that the alcohol was wearing off and even so he _still_ missed, his mouth pressed up against Dom's cheek, his breath hot and sticky, his tongue sliding down Dom's damp cheek till it found the pink corner of Dom's open mouth.

"Billy," Dom muttered, and he was kissing Billy, (his hands curving around Billy's back, sliding under Billy's jacket and sweeping up and down the damp expanse of Billy's shirt-clad back before pulling the jacket up and over Billy's shoulders, letting it hang haphazardly off Billy's elbows). Billy shrugged the jacket off, letting it fall to the ground before his hands clutched at Dom's hair once more. 

Billy groaned into Dom's kiss as his tongue found Dom's, as he tasted dark, lush red wine and the last, desperate remnants of chocolate under the heavier scent and taste of Dom's cigarettes. If Billy was in any fit state to dissect Dom's kiss (which he clearly wasn't, as his legs were shaking and he was collapsing back against the wall, Dom's hands trapped against the wallpaper, Dom falling with him (pressing closer and was it impossible that their bodies were merging and becoming one?) and grinning against his mouth and whispering _idiot_ in the same way one would whisper _love_ ) then he would have to maintain that Dom was the best fucking kiss he'd ever had. Not necessarily in _technique_ , for Billy had had more perfectly executed kisses, ones where he fitted nicely against his partner, the touch simple and perfect, mouths not open too much or too little, tongues touching and exploring and feeling and stroking, kisses that would look fantastic on screen. Billy and Dom didn't fit into that category—that category when kisses _looked_ amazing to the onlooker, where kisses were watched and sighed over and the onlooker wanted to look that good whilst kissing. Billy and Dom were all limbs and extremities; tongues and pushing and pressing and touching. Billy and Dom weren't comfortable to the naked eye, they were messy and hot and wet and so fucking turned on that it would have caused any audience member to cross their legs in bedraggled involuntary arousal. Dom didn't just kiss with his lips, he kissed with his fingers and his touch and his leg nudging it's way past the sporran, nestling in the curve of Billy's thighs, pressing and pushing and grinding against Billy's cock (causing Billy's vision to splinter and his mouth to fall open against Dom's, causing Dom to smile against Billy's mouth and press _harder_ ); Dom kissed with his hands (running over Billy's biceps like rapids over a waterfall), with his fingers (gripping and pushing and holding and bruising), with his cock (rubbing its way to fevered heights of anticipation against the thick wool of Billy's kilt) and Dom kissed with his tongue. _Fucking hell, that tongue_. Dom kissed like he wanted to know every single last crevice and fold and vein and damp patch of pink skin that Billy owned. Dom kissed like he wanted to stake his claim on every last inch of Billy's body. Dom _kissed_. 

And fucking hell if Billy didn't kiss back harder. 

The drink had worn off a bit by now; Billy was less inclined to see two of Dominic, and more inclined towards focusing. He could still taste the rich memories of their shared red wine somewhere at the edges of his perception, and Billy delved deeper, his tongue sweeping Dom's, desperately trying to capture that _essence_ , that taste, that _memory_. His lips—damp with their mixed saliva, red from the pressure of Dom's mouth, sensitive from the graze of Dom's late night (early morning) stubble—they found Dom's again, pressing and pushing and sliding and Billy was left wondering if he kissed hard enough, would their skin begin to meld together? His hands swept Dom's back, brushing and feeling and stroking the soft Indian cotton of Dom's purple shirt. His fingers nestled in the curve of Dom's lower back, where Dom's shirt (still caught in the back of his charcoal trousers) was damp with sweat and sticky against Dom's skin. His fingers crept lower, inching the shirt up and out and away from the confines of Dom's trousers, his touch desperate to feel skin (hot, sticky, smooth, soft, _Dom's_ skin), his fingers itching to remove layer after layer of clothing. 

The cotton bunched in his hand. Purple—the colour of majesty. Well bugger them if they weren't going to put on a royal show this evening. Billy tugged it upwards, trying to concentrate on ridding Dom of all these pesky layers of clothing that were achieving nothing more than stopping Billy from pressing his naked skin against Dom's. Never mind that he was still fully clothed himself, never mind _that_ , Billy had a task in mind. And it ended with Dom naked and spread-eagled on his bed and Billy emptying packet after packet of chocolate buttons all over his hot, sweet skin. "You hear that, Dommie," Billy pulled away suddenly, his lips red and swollen, his eyes glittering in the darkness. Dom licked his lips, the redness from Billy's overenthusiastic kissing sneaking and merging with the pale skin around his mouth, "I'm going to get you naked and lick chocolate off your chest."

"Fuck _yeah_ ," Dom breathed, and he ran one shaking hand through his hair. His eyes burnt black and dark, the pupils obscuring the irises, his lashes brushing against Billy's brow. His fingers rested in the nape of Billy's neck, his sticky forehead coming to rest against Billy's. "I see a tiny problem, however." His words were quiet against Billy's ear, murmurs on the evening air. 

Billy froze and tried to pull away so he could see more than just the end of Dom's nose. "What?" he asked, struggling slightly as Dom's hand clamped around his neck and movement was stopped for the foreseeable future. Dom was licking the end of Billy's nose, wet and warm and—all of a sudden - fucking hot. 

"Well, Billy," Dom said, as his fingers trailed their way down Billy's sleeve, coming to rest on each finger in turn, feeling their way past knuckle and joint to the smooth nail, before moving onto the next one, "you're still very much clothed."

"Now that _is_ a problem," Billy agreed, relaxing against Dom, and starting to reach for his shirt buttons, turning his head so that his words were nothing more than gasps of breath that whispered past Dom's reddened lips. 

Dom closed his fist around Billy's hand. "Who said _you_ got to play a part in getting you naked?" He asked, and the words twisted and burnt in the dark light of the hallway, stifling Billy's breath and scorching his skin. His skin prickled beneath Dom's touch. If Billy's brain wasn't already in pieces, just molten lava that steamed and frazzled in the air around them, then the very thought of Dom undressing him, button by button, was enough to cause his legs to wobble and a vein to pulse in his neck. "Fucking hell, Dom," he breathed, and he pushed his cock up against Dom's, his hips moving with their own, independent, primeval rhythm, " _Please_ ," he begged, his breath ragged. His fingers clutched around Dom's forearm, the pressure undoubtedly leaving dark marks on the skin beneath the shirt. 

Dom kissed him again, hot and wet and messy and full of words and sentiments that Billy couldn't even try and interpret; he kissed and _pushed_ , (with cock, and then with tongue, and then finally, with the flat of his hands) and Billy found himself sprawled inelegantly on Dom's stairs, knees apart, staring up at Dom (whose eyes were dark with intentions as sinful as Lucifer himself). 

"That's better," Dom murmured, and as Billy lay there (feeling the vague ache across his bum of someone who's fallen on top of something relatively hard and bumpy—likely as not to be a bag of surfboard wax and old trainers), the rough touch of the carpet doing strange things to the back of his knees, Billy wondered haphazardly how much longer he could hold on. His cock fucking _hurt_. It rubbed uncomfortably at the damp patch on his kilt, chafing slightly as the wool shifted. But then Billy looked up and Dom was licking his lips, staring down at Billy with hunger in his eyes and determination edging from his touch. 

And Billy shivered, his eyes locking with Dom's for a split second. The air crackled and Billy reached for Dom's wrist, his fingers closing around the warm skin, his finger meeting his thumb—a closed circle. "Dom," Billy muttered, and the air swallowed his words; Dom dropped to his knees, inching in between Billy's spread-eagled legs, his wrist still held in Billy's grip. 

With his spare hand, Dom reached down to Billy's shoe, his gaze never leaving Billy's face. "What?" he asked, and his palm flexed against Billy's bare knee, the hairs shifting against his touch. 

Billy swallowed, his lips dry, his breath forced. "Get a fucking move on, will you?" Billy tried to smile, but he couldn't. His whole body was on fire, his kilt riding up his thighs, his sporran slung to one side against the step. The sight of Dom, kneeling in front of him, his eyes dark and glittering, was enough to knock Billy right off kilter for good. Even the knowledge that Dom was struggling with Billy's laces (not surprising, considering that Billy had tied them in double knots earlier)—not even the fact that Dom was muttering _fuck_ and _you always have to make things fucking difficult, don't you Boyd_ —not even **that** could spoil this for Billy. Because he was here, with Dom. Dom - who three hours earlier (ok, maybe four, maybe even five, maybe even fucking thirty seven, judging by the wet patch on his kilt and the sheer duration of time he'd currently been suffering this self same erection) had been nothing more than his best friend—was now just inches away from him, just inches away from becoming something else entirely, mere promises in the darkness. And yes, they'd been close before—spending hours together in costume, sprawling on the ground between takes and getting bollocked by the production staff, long drunken nights with the cast—and never, ever before had Billy ever been suffused with the desire to rip Dom's clothes off and fuck him until he came. Funny how that before this evening, Billy had never noticed that he would rather like to explore every single centimetre of Dom's body using only his tongue. 

Fuck this. Dom was taking _forever_. Reaching past Dom, breathing in the scent of wine and cigarettes and booze and chocolate and aftershave and sweat and fucking Dom, he tugged on his shoe. "Shit," he muttered, his palm braced over Dom's for balance. "Next time," Billy told Dom, biting his bottom lip and clutching the heel of his shoe, "remind me to wear velcro."

"Next time?" Dom asked, with a lick of his lips. His voice was low, a rumble of sounds hot against Billy's ear. Billy fought the temptation to shiver. 

Billy picked fruitlessly at his laces in the darkness, "Unless you want to spend hours trying to undo my shoelaces again."

"No," Dom caught the base of Billy's earlobe between his teeth, nibbling gently. "I think this is one distraction I could quite happily do without." 

"Fuck," Billy swore, tugging on his shoe once more. That was it, no more laces for him. When he'd finished having his brains fucked out by Dom, and after that, when he'd reciprocated and fucked Dom into the middle of next week (his cock pulsed at the thought), he was bloody going home and ripping the laces out of every single pair of shoes he owned. Flip flops were definitely the way forward. Or maybe those grey slip-ons favoured by middle class businessmen of a certain age the world over. He'd never seen the functionality of such an ugly type of shoe before, but right now, (as his fingers picked relentlessly at the tightly knotted laces, and he leaned forward, bracing his weight against Dom's chest, and his horizons smouldered and flickered with red flame) he was considering whether it would be appropriate to put in a bid for company shares. He sighed, loudly, and let go of his shoe. "They're stuck," he told Dom, his hands sneaking their way up Dom's biceps, up and across his shoulders and past his collar until his fingers found the warm, pink skin of Dom's neck. He rested his forehead against Dom's, feeling the damp sheen of sweat that beaded across his skin merge with Dom's. His thumbs grazed the underside of Dom's chin, the stubble rough against his touch. 

"Does this mean we have to shag with you with your shoes on?" Dom asked, with what could quite possibly (under any other circumstances, when breaths weren't gasps, hot and heavy in the darkness) be a snigger. 

Under any other circumstances, the event of Dom _sniggering_ at him would result in certain death. Or, at least an attempt on Dom's life through the means of pushing or fighting or merely beating him at Grand Theft Auto. Admittedly, playstation was hardly the most efficient tool of death, but Billy was all about the long term. And he'd read the health and safety warnings in the instruction booklet. It was only a matter of time. Anyway, Billy felt he was losing his grip on what he (quite loosely, as luck would have it) termed reality. Here he was, sprawled on a staircase with a drunk, sexy-as-fuck Dominic Monaghan between his legs, and all he could think about was the fucking playstation. Billy wondered if it were possible to apply for a lobotomy at this late stage in the game and put in a bid for a brain that wasn't likely to wander off right when it was supposed to be concentrating on very important things indeed. Like getting Dom naked. Or himself, more importantly, seeing as Dom had offered to rid him of his clothes, using force if necessary (maybe Billy had made that bit up, but who cared, because the very thought of it was making his dick twitch beneath the kilt—and why the **fuck** was he still wearing clothes?) and who was Billy to refuse Dom's kind and pertinent offer? Billy was a fucking idiot, that was who. A fucking idiot who was being brought back to earth with a bump by Dom leaning in and _kissing_ him. 

"Shite," Billy said—or would have said, if he wasn't currently engaged in pressing his mouth to Dom's, and sweeping his tongue against Dom's. "Damn," Billy said—or would have said, if Dom wasn't suddenly putting his hands one either side of Billy and leaning Billy back against the stairs, and _grinding_ his erection against Billy's rather prominent cock. "Fuck," Billy said—or would have said, if Dom wasn't attempting to undo the buckle of his sporran whilst kissing him (eyes open, trying to pay dual attention to the brass of Billy's buckle and Billy's wildly roving tongue). 

Billy clamped his knees to Dom's sides, crossing his ankles behind Dom's back. He tugged on the heel of one black, shiny shoe with the toe of the other, deciding to give up with delicacy and just go for pure, unadulterated force. The shoe flipped off with a final, desultory pop, and his newly bared (ok, newly _aired_ , because there were still socks to be contended with) toes desperately tried to get a grip on the shiny back of his last remaining shoe. It was at about this moment—when he'd finally got his heel out, and his shoe hung only on his toes—that Billy realised that there was something to be said for this particular position. Judging, of course, by the dry rasp of Dom's breath against his open mouth, and the reddening of his already pink cheeks. Judging by the fact that Dom's eyes were dark and hooded, and his fingers had stilled on Billy's buckle. Judging by the fact that being like this—pressed together, his thighs clamped to Dom's sides, more of his legs on show than Billy would typically like, considering Dom was still fully clothed—being like this meant that there was the most god-awful friction and pressure between them. Dom groaned against Billy's cheek, his cock moving softly, rhythmically against Billy's kilt. 

It was a new form of torture. Exquisite, horrific, painful, _beautiful_ torture. 

"Dom," Billy breathed, and his fingers tore and curled in the cotton of Dom's collar, fighting to get beneath Dom's shirt to the temptation of the soft, hot skin beneath. But either the holes had shrunk or his fingers had grown to a size which just couldn't accommodate the science of buttons, because they twisted away from him, taunting him in the darkness. Thank God (the gods, the heavens, the mountains of Olympus, _whatever_ ) that Dom had already loosened his tie in the taxi, otherwise there could have been a thoroughly painful moment involving strangulation, Dom, and a rather sexy tie. Billy picked at the loose knot, amazed at how easily the silk came away in his hand. 

"Billy," Dom haphazardly licked his way up Billy's face, his tongue wet and long and pink. His breathing was tight and hot as the buckle finally loosened and Billy's hips pressed upwards, suddenly free of the weight of his sporran. "I can't wait..." 

_He_ couldn't wait? When Billy's hips were rocking against the stair, pushing against Dom's groin and the wet patch on the front of his trousers, and finally— _finally_ —the buttons of Dom's shirt were co-operating, popping open beneath his touch. The flat of his hand rested against the v of skin visible, feeling Dom's rapid breathing and the minute itch of the pale smattering of Dom's chest hair against his palm. His other hand slipped downwards, tugging Dom's shirt out of his trousers, his hand skidding its way around the jut of Dom's hipbone, sliding under Dom's shirt and coming to rest in the small of Dom's (sweaty and sticky, but who fucking cared) back. Billy shuddered as Dom bucked under Billy's hand. Billy would have grinned if he hadn't been busy, one hand pressing into the small of Dom's back, forcing Dom closer and harder against Billy's (fucking hard, oh so fucking hard) erection, the other hand destroying Dom's perfect, beautiful shirt with a few deft tugs and pulls at seemingly unrepentant buttonholes. Billy would have smiled and laughed if he could, because who would ever have guessed that Dom was ticklish _there_ , in the soft curve of the base of his spine? His fingers ghosted over the spot once more, and he was rewarded by Dom's helpless bucking against his kilt, Dom's eyes meeting Billy's in the darkness. And fuck Billy if they weren't on _fire_. 

"Me neither," Billy gasped, as the final button came away and Billy's hand was pressed against the flat curve of Dom's stomach, his fingers creeping downwards through the casual matting of hair, towards Dom's trousers and his erection. 

" _Shit_ ," Dom breathed, and Billy, who'd never really been a fan of endearments anyway, resolved never to use another one ever, not when he it could be like _this_. Dom braced himself against the stair, and tugged at Billy's shirt with his other hand. "Billy?" he begged, as he struggled, and Billy couldn't help but grin. 

"I thought you were going to get me naked, Dom," he said, his fingers curling around the top button of Dom's trousers. 

"Fuck that," Dom muttered, pulling himself backwards until he was kneeling, looking down at Billy through dark, shadowed lashes. Billy's was still gripping the waistband of Dom's trousers, the material tenting upwards against the fly. "Billy," he whispered, and Billy's breath caught in his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. The air stilled around them. Why the _fuck_ had they not done this earlier? "Billy... please." Dom's voice was tight, his fingers shaking as he clutched at his own fly. 

Billy began to pull at his own shirt, struggling with the buttons, pulling the tails out of his kilt. 

"God, Billy." Dom was watching him, his eyes wide and glittering. 

And Billy couldn't breath at all; his throat just _closed_ , his windpipe tight and dry. 

Dom was kneeling in front of him, his shirt fully open and hanging off his shoulders. A trail of golden brown hair meandered its way downwards, down past the open top button of his fly. Billy's eyes widened. _Shit_. Look at that. Dom was slowly (oh so slowly, with a patience designed to utterly destroy Billy's mind and sanity, if it wasn't already cracked and broken into a million pieces) sliding each button of his fly undone, his eyes never leaving Billy's face. Dom's hand slid over his own erection, forcing his flies undone, and Billy could see the effort it was taking Dom for his hand not to still and for it to slip beneath the black underwear and for his fingers to crease and curl around the damp and slippery head of his cock and bring himself to the climax he was so desperately seeking. Fuck. Billy couldn't do this anymore, he just _couldn't_. His mind babbled at him, thoughts seeping into his subconscious. His hands stilled on his shirt, half open, a long dip of pale skin leading down almost to his kilt. Dom. _Dom_. He'd never seen anything more beautiful in the whole of his fucking life. "Dom," he said, weakly. His cock was weeping against his kilt and if there was one thing he hated right at this moment in time, it was the scratch of wool against sensitive (fucking understatement of the fucking century) erect skin. His fingers scrabbled with the buckles on either side of his kilt, his eyes never leaving Dom's fingers. And then as the buckles came loose in his sweating, shaking fingers and the wool fell loosely against his groin, Dom pulled his trousers down over his erection and let them fall down to his knees. 

_Fuck_. 

Billy let out the breath he didn't even know he was holding— _whoosh_ —and his own fingers clutched at his kilt. 

Dom's hands were resting in the elastic waistband of his black boxer shorts. Billy could see the spread of the damp patch across the front by his erection. 

The air was still; their hurried, wet breathing was the only sound Billy could hear in the hallway. From somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

Dom slipped his boxers down over his cock at the same moment that Billy pulled open his kilt. 

Fuck. _Fuck. **Fuck.**_

Billy's gaze flitted immediately from Dom's face (shadowed, dark and fucking _hungry_ in the silver half-light) to his erect, reddened, slippery cock (oh god oh ohgodohgodohgod). "Dom," he whispered haphazardly, his voice catching, rasping, in his throat. Was there no fucking air in this place? Billy's cock breathed fresh, free air for one more blissful (desperate) moment before Dom lunged, pressing his body to Billy's. 

And Billy's hands were in Dom's hair, grabbing handfuls just to keep himself from up _there_ , pressed against Dom's skin, his hips bucking just to touch—oh fucking _hell_. He knew he was almost there, almost at that point where he cracked and broke and splintered across the floor (or the stairs, in this case); knew it by the familiar tightening of his balls and the heat pooling in his stomach. Sweat beaded across his skin, in the curves of his body. The damp, slippery head of Dom's cock bumped against Billy's navel, and Billy sucked in a breath as Dom shifted, sliding downwards (his cock leaving a sticky, slippery trail through the fuzz of hair that smattered Billy's stomach down towards his pubic hair) and - _fuck_ \- Dom was groaning against his mouth, (wet sounds that vibrated and shifted against Billy's tongue) as Billy's cock brushed against the dark, curly hair on Dom's thighs. Then—as Dom's hand slid downwards, his thumb trailing a pathway across the pale, soft skin of Billy's ribcage—Billy hissed as the sensitive, slippery head of his own cock bumped into an equally sensitive, equally slippery, equally hard erection (if Dom's groan was anything to go by, and Billy thought it was, considering that Dom had just bitten down on Billy's lip with a strangled yelp). Spontaneous combustion was for moments like this, then. His skin was on fire.

Billy's hands were still in Dom's hair, clutching handfuls, his mouth against Dom's. This wasn't kissing, Billy thought haphazardly, (his hips pressed upwards against Dom's, their movements staggered and jerky as their bodies skidded and slipped and pressed together) this was sheer, desperate _need_. Billy couldn't have pulled away if he had tried, his mouth hot and wet and pressed against Dom's, groaning against his tongue. 

Dom's hand slid around Billy's shoulders (under Billy's open shirt) pulling Billy upwards, probably leaving a Billy-shaped indent forever tattooed onto Dom's skin. And Billy groaned, because this... this _friction_ between them, it couldn't go on much longer. His whole body ached, his cock sliding and jerking against Dom's. Christ. This was _Dom_. And suddenly, the sheer necessity to remind himself of who it was he was with overcame his need to be _there_ , kissing Dom, and he pulled away from Dom's mouth, shifting to meet Dom's eyes. 

"Billy," Dom breathed, and Billy couldn't help but be amazed by what he saw there. Even now—when sweat beaded across Dom's brow and glistened on his nose, when the black of Dom's pupils seeped and melded with the fire burning in his irises, when his mouth (red, wet, scratched with Billy's stubble) hung open and his breath came in gasps, when his eyeliner was smudged with exertion—Dom may well have been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "Billy," Dom repeated, and then, suddenly, Dom's hand was between their slick bodies, and Dom had both their cocks in the palm of his hand, (talk about having the whole world in your hand, Billy thought haphazardly, as his pulse began to beat even faster, pounding in his head) and Dom's fingers closed around their erections. 

And Billy saw fucking stars. 

His breath hitched in his throat and his hand closed around Dom's bicep as his skin prickled and curved. Sweat beaded at his throat, gleamed across his upper lip. His lips were suddenly dry as his stomach clenched and his hips bucked against Dom's hand. His breath caught and he knew he was speaking but he couldn't make sense of the words—they were just sounds breathed onto the night air. He could have been saying Dom's name, over and over, but he couldn't tell and really, it didn't matter, because he was staring into Dom's eyes (and they were wide, and they were dark, and they were _open_ and they said _Billy Billy Billy_ regardless of whether Dom was actually mouthing the words or not). And Billy knew that he wanted to be saying Dom as he came, he wanted to whisper those words ( _Dom, fuck, Dom_ —and right now he wanted to whisper _love_ and just be done with it) and he wanted Dom to hear him speak. But then Dom's hand shifted, and his thumb grazed the hot, sensitive (tender, sore, oh so fucking _raw_ ) underside of his cock, down towards the base where his balls nestled, and it was such a simple, accidental touch, but it was all that was needed. Billy's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open, the sentiment exquisite in his exhalation. And he was coming, he could feel it, the pressure overwhelming him (his toes curling and flexing inside his socks, his fingers clinging to Dom's bicep with a grip like iron, and he knew he was coming all over Dom's hand, and Dom's cock, and his stomach and his thighs, and the knowledge made Billy's cock twitch and jump in Dom's hand. 

Billy's head fell back, and he cried _Dom_ as he came. 

~


End file.
